mm 


MORNINGS   WITH    MASTERS   OF   ART 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS  •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


C  11,  Madonna  with  St.  Anne  (Cartoon).    Burlington  House,  London. 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  1452-1519. 


MORNINGS 


WITH 


MASTERS   OF   ART 


BY 

H.    H.    POWERS,    Ph.D. 

u 

PRESIDENT   BUREAU   OF   UNIVERSITY   TRAVEL 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1912 

AU  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1912, 
By  H.   H.  powers. 


Set  up  and  clectrotyped.     Published  September,  1912. 


Kortsool)  }fixt%» 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  A  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S  A. 


/f/z 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction i 

CHAPTER 

I.    The  Afterglow  of  Greece 8 

II.    How  Art  became  Christian 22 

III.  The  Bursting  of  the  Bonds 44 

IV.  The  First  of  the  Moderns 56 

V.    The  Larger  Vision 79 

VI.    The  Protest  of  Faith* 96 

VII.    The  Revolt  against  the  Church 123 

VIII.    The  New  Paganism  and  the  Old  Faith       .        .'        .135 

IX.    The  Contribution  of  Pisa 157 

X.    Ghiberti,  the  Painter  in  Bronze 177 

XL    The  New  Science 199 

XII.     Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      .        .  220 

XIII.  Umbria  and  her  Artist 256 

XIV.  Raphael  in  Rome .  285 

XV.    Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola        .  317 

XVI.    The  Great  Pope,  his  Tomb  and  his  Chapel         .        .  346 

XVII.    Art  Transcendent 426 

Conclusion:  "And  after  that  the  Dark"       ....  452 


254398 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

„  ,      ^    .        .  UNIVERSITY 

Greek  Painting  print  page 

Maidens  playing  Jack  stones B3  11 

Aldobrandini  Marriage B13  19 

Mosaics 

Battle  of  Issus B  14  13 

Ceiling,  S.  Costanza,  Rome B  18  28 

Apse,  S.  Pudenziana,  Rome B  19  32 

Apse,  S.  M.  in  Trastevere,  Rome          .         .         .         .  B  35  35 

Apse,  S.  Agnese  fuori  le  Mura,  Rome  .         .         .         .  B  31  39 

Cimabue 

Madonna  Enthroned    .         .* B  49  49 

Madonna  Enthroned  (Rucellai  Madonna)   .         .         .  B  50  51 

Giotto 

Obedience B  55  59 

Poverty         .         . B  56  62 

Presentation  of  the  Virgin B  58  64 

Flight  into  Egypt          . B  61  66 

Corruption  of  Judas B  64  69 

Envy   .         .        •.         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  B  70  73 

Ascension  of  St.  John  Evangelist          .         .         .         .  B  75  75 

St.  Francis  before  the  Sultan B  72  77 

Masolino 

Feast  of  Herod B  130  82 

Adam  and  Eve  in  Eden ^  I35  9° 

Masaccio 

Tribute  Money B  140  87 

Expulsion  from  Eden B  139  92 

St.  Peter  baptizing  the  Pagans     .         .         .         .  ~      .  B  144  95 

Spanish  Chapel 

Triumph  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas B  105  98 

The  Church  Militant  and  Triumphant ...         .  B  107  100 

Orcagna 

Paradise B  83  103 

vii 


viii  List  of  Illustrations 

UNIVERSITY 

Fra  Angehco  print  face 

Madonna  of  the  Linaiuoli B  115  109 

Dominican  Monks  meeting  Christ      ....  B  119  113 

Last  Judgment .         .  B  116  115 

The  Blessed B  117  116 

Annunciation B  120  119 

Fra  Filippo  Lippi 

Annunciation B  154  126 

Annunciation B  155  128 

Madonna  and  Child,  with  Two  Angels       .         .         .  B  152  130 

Botticelli 

Allegory  of  Spring B  168  139 

Adoration  of  the  Magi B  175  141 

Group  of  Heads  (Punishment  of  Korah)    .         .         .  B  172  143 

Birth  of  Venus   .         .         .        .         .         .         .         .  B  167  148 

Madonna  of  the  Magnificat B  177  276 

Ghirlandajo 

Birth  of  John  the  Baptist B  200  153 

Niccolo  Pisano 

Pulpit,  Pisa         .         . B  379  159 

Shrine  of  St.  Dominic B  384  163 

Sculptures  at  Orvieto 

Pilaster  of  Cathedral  Pa$ade B  400  166 

Bonanus 

Bronze  Doors,  Pisa Ml  169 

Andrea  Pisano 

Panels  from  Bronze  Doors,  Florence  .         .         .         .  B  395  173 

Brunelleschi 

Sacrifice  of  Abraham B  429  182 

Ghiberti 

Sacrifice  of  Abraham B  416  180 

Panels  from  North  Doors B  418  186 

East  Doors B  420  1 92 

Story  of  Abraham  (Fourth  Panel)      .         .         .         .  B  422  193 

Isaac  and  his  Sons  (Fifth  Panel)        .         .         .         .  B  423  194 

David  and  Goliath  (Ninth  Panel)       .         .         .         .  B  424  195 

St.  Stephen B  425  200 

Donatello 

St.  George B  434  201 

St.  Lawrence B  446  204 


List  of  Illustrations 


IX 


UNIVERSITY 

Donatello  {Conhnued)  print  page 

King  David  (II  Zuccone) B  438  206 

Singing  Gallery  .         .         .         .         .         .         .  B  439  21 1 

Feast  of  Herod   .......  B  436  213 

Verocchio 

Bartolommeo  Colleoni :  equestrian  statue  .         .  B  493  217 

Leonardo  da  Vinci 

Mona  Lisa C  10  252 

Madonna  of  the  Rocks C  12  228 

Madonna  with  St.  Anne :  cartoon        .         .         .  C  1 1    Frontispiece 

Madonna,  Child,  and  St.  Anne     .         .         .         .  C  16  234 

Battle  of  Anghiari C  21  236 

Last  Supper C  3-8  242-247 

Perugino 

Crucifixion B  268  258 

Deposition B  269  261 

Raphael 

Solly  Madonna C  143  263 

Marriage  of  the  Virgin  :  group  of  heads      .         .  C  148  264 

Madonna  del  Granduca C  149  266 

La  Belle  Jardiniere C  156  268 

Madonna  del  Prato C  158  269 

Madonna  del  Cardellino C  151  270 

Madonna  della  Sedia C  188  274 

Madonna  di  San  Sisto C  196  278 

Donna  Velata C  194  282 

Fire  in  the  Borgo M  2  309 

Prudence,  Force,  and  Moderation        .         .         .  C  169  292 

Disputa C  160  294 

School  of  Athens C  167  301 

Parnassus C  164  305 

Niccolo  da  Bari 

Angel  with  Candlestick B  497  330 

Michelangelo 

Battle  of  the  Centaurs C  439  324 

Madonna  of  the  Stair C  440  327 

Pieta C  444  334 

David C  448  342 

Moses ;         .  C451  351 

Bound  Slave C  452  357 


List  of  Illustrations 


«>•    •      1  ^       ,  y-  UNIVERSITY 

Michelangelo  {Coniinuea)  print  page 

Doni  Madonna C  loi  362 

Interior  of  Sistine  Chapel         .         .         .         .  C  104  366 

Separation  of  Light  and  Darkness  .         .         .  C  105  375 

Creation  of  Land  and  Water   .         .         .         .  C  107  377 

Creation  of  Sun  and  Moon       .         .         .         .  C  106  379 

Creation  of  Man C  108  382 

Creation  of  Eve Cm  385 

Temptation  and  Expulsion  from  Eden     .         ,  C  112  387 

Zechariah C  121  393 

Joel C  120  394 

Daniel C  123  395 

Ezekiel C  119  397 

Jeremiah C  118  398 

Isaiah C  122  401 

Jonah C117  403 

Erythrean  Sibyl C  125  407 

Delphic  Sibyl C  126  409 

Persian  Sibyl C  124  411 

Cumtean  Sibyl C  127  412 

Libyan  Sibyl    .         .         .         .         .         .         .  C  128  414 

Decorative  P'igures C  131-133     417-421 

Jesse        .         .         , C  129  423 

Eleazer  and  Mathan C  130  424 

Last  Judgment C  134  428 

Tomb  of  Giuliano  de'  Medici  .         .         ,         .  C  455  436 

Tomb  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  .         .         .         .  C  459  437 

Giuliano  de'  Medici C  456  440 

Lorenzo  de'  Medici C  460  441 

Night C457  438 

Twilight C  461  439 

Deposition C  464  450 


MORNINGS   WITH    MASTERS   OF   ART 


MORNINGS   WITH    MASTERS 
OF  ART 

INTRODUCTION 

The  purpose  of  this  book  is  somewhat  more  ambitious 
than  its  title  suggests.  It  is  an  attempt  partially  to  interpret 
the  development  of  Christian  art  from  the  time  of  Constantine 
to  the  death  of  Michelangelo.  The  term,  Christian,  as  applied 
to  art,  may  be  used  in  two  senses.  On  the  one  hand,  it  may 
mean  the  art  of  countries  and  periods  which  have  recognized, 
in  a  degree  at  least,  the  Christian  religion.  In  that  sense, 
all  the  art  of  Europe  for  the  last  sixteen  hundred  years,  with 
the  single  exception  of  the  Moorish  art  in  Spain,  must  be 
accounted  Christian.  There  is  a  feeble  semblance  of  unity, 
and  possibly  of  Christian  suggestion,  in  this  vast  category, 
but  there  are  few  adjectives  less  descriptive  of  the  art  of 
Boucher  or  Whistler  than  this  term,  Christian.  The  word 
will  be  more  serviceable,  therefore,  if  used  in  a  more  limited 
sense.  From  the  fourth  century  to  the  sixteenth,  art  was 
developed  primarily  in  the  service  of  the  Christian  religion. 
Not  only  were  the  subjects  treated  for  the  most  part  related 
to  its  history  and  practices,  but  in  their  expression  we  can 
easily  trace  habits  of  thought  and  ideals  which  were  derived 
wholly  or  in  part  from  this  faith.  During  the  latter  part  of 
this  period,  other  influences  were  plainly  at  work,  and  that 
increasingly.  The  revival  of  interest  in  the  ancient  culture 
was  the  most  conspicuous  and  conscious  of  these  influences, 
but  not  the  most  potent.  The  study  of  nature  and  a  broad- 
ening conception  of  life  and  its  environment  slowly  gave  rise 
to  ideals  which,  while  not  subversive  of  Christian  faith  or 

I 


Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


principles,  are  not  distinctive  of  it.  Art  first  slips  the  leash 
of  church  patronage  and  direct  control,  and  finally  of  church 
themes  and  habits  of  thought.  Art  does  not  become  anti- 
Christian  or  irreligious.  It  merely  busies  itself  with  another 
order  of  ideas.  This  change  was  essentially  effected  by  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  the  great  art  of  the 
northern  countries,  which  developed  after  that  time,  while 
frequently  dealing  with  Christian  themes  and  full  of  reminis- 
cences of  the  Christian  art  of  an  earlier  day,  is  not  in  any  very 
significant  sense  Christian.  Few  painters  have  been  better 
suited  by  temperament  for  the  interpretation  of  Christianity 
than  Rembrandt,  and  some  of  his  religious  pictures,  like  the 
incomparable  Supper  at  Emmaus  in  the  Louvre,  seem  pre- 
eminently to  deserve  that  title.  But  such  themes  are  the 
exception,  and  a  picture  like  the  Night  Watch,  which  repre- 
sents a  military  company  in  the  most  secular  of  employments, 
involves  precisely  the  same  resources  and  works  the  same 
spell.  The  distinctively  religious  element  is  not  dominant 
in  Rembrandt's  art,  or  in  the  art  of  the  North  generally. 
The  same  is  conspicuously  true  of  Rembrandt's  great  con- 
temporary, Velasquez,  and  even  Murillo  is  only  an  apparent 
exception.  The  plain  fact  is  that  in  the  northern  art,  and 
even  in  the  southern  art  after  Michelangelo,  distinctively 
Christian  ideals  can  be  traced  only  as  historic  survivals. 
For  this  reason  it  has  seemed  best  to  confine  this  study  to 
the  period  mentioned. 

For  a  different  reason,  it  has  seemed  best  for  the  time  being 
to  omit  all  consideration  of  Venetian  art.  This  art  is  quite 
as  distinctively  Christian  as  the  Florentine,  perhaps  more  so, 
but  as  Christian  art  it  tells  us  little  that  is  new.  The  Chris- 
tian ideals  were  present  to  the  minds  of  the  Venetians  in  much 
the  same  form  as  to  the  Florentines,  though  they  grasped 
them  with  less  subtlety.  The  Venetian  art  differed  in  other 
respects  enormously  from  the  art  which  we  are  here  con- 
sidering.   Were  we  interested  for  the  moment  in  tracing 


Introdtiction 


some  other  order  of  ideas,  the  Venetian  art  might  easily  be 
of  paramount  importance.  But  aside  from  the  technique 
of  painting,  in  which  the  Venetians  achieved  an  enviable 
distinction,  the  art  of  Venice  differs  from  that  of  Italy  proper 
chiefly  in  two  particulars.  The  first  is  its  Orientalism.  We 
shall  never  understand  Venice  until  we  think  of  her  as  cul- 
turally a  suburb  of  Constantinople,  whose  influence  on  the 
art  of  Europe,  always  considerable,  was  here  supreme.  It 
was  no  slavish  copying  of  Byzantine  models,  —  Venice  w^as 
quite  too  independent  for  that,  —  but  a  temperamental 
sympathy  with  Oriental  feeling  in  art  matters.  This,  in  its 
place,  is  a  most  interesting  subject  for  study. 

Aside  from  this  Orientalism,  Venice  is  essentially  modern. 
Her  treatment  of  religious  themes  is*  sincere  enough,  but 
conventional.  In  her  art  we  find  neither  the  lively  zeal  of 
Giotto  nor  the  rapturous  ecstasy  of  Fra  Angelico,  nor  the 
revolt  of  Fra  Lippo,  nor  the  deeper  spiritual  insight  of  Leo- 
nardo or  Michelangelo.  Her  religious  art  is  both  serious  and 
sincere,  but  with  few  exceptions  it  has  neither  intensity  nor 
spiritual  subtlety.  Even  the  stupendous  dramatic  works  of 
Titian  are  spectacular  rather  than  expressive  of  soul  yearning. 
Titian  merely  exploits  the  stage  possibilities  of  the  con- 
ventional faith.  But  these  great  mundanes  are  as  keenly 
alive  to  the  things  that  interest  modern  art  as  the  Florentines 
wxre  to  their  own  ideals.  Giorgione  loved  landscape  as  well 
as  Corot,  if  he  did  not,  in  his  short  life,  carry  it  so  far.  Titian 
rivals  Sargent  in  his  appreciation  of  the  delight  of  the  eye  and 
the  beauty  of  the  flesh.  This  is  not  disparagement;  the 
theme  of  these  painters  was  neither  unworthy  nor  material- 
istic. They  were  on  the  road  to  discover  spiritual  possibilities 
in  impersonal  nature  which  rival  those  of  Michelangelo's 
prophets.  But  with  all  their  developed  technique  they  stand 
at  the  beginning  of  one  epoch  as  their  great  Florentine 
contemporaries  stand  at  the  end  of  another.  All  honor  to 
them  in  their  place,  but  this  is  not  their  place. 


Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


Our  field  thus  defined,  it  remains  for  us  to  conceive  clearly 
what  we  propose  to  do  in  it.  The  interpretation  of  art  must 
be  carefully  distinguished  from  the  interpretation  or  explana- 
tion of  painting,  sculpture,  and  so  forth,  the  special  forms  of 
art.  The  latter  would  imply  much  discussion  of  processes, 
mediums,  materials,  and  so  forth.  To  some  extent  these 
inquiries  are  inevitable,  for  it  not  infrequently  happens  that 
the  materials  or  the  processes  employed  in  art  have  much  to 
do  with  the  choice  of  themes  and  the  manner  of  their  treat- 
ment. This  is  conspicuously  true  of  the  mosaics,  where  the 
building  of  pictures  with  little  cubes  of  marble  or  other 
material  was  so  unlike  painting,  making  some  things  so  much 
easier  and  other  things  so  much  harder,  that  the  ideals  of  art 
inevitably  underwent  serious  modification  in  consequence. 
We  shall  not  understand  the  mosaics  or  get  into  sympathy 
with  them,  unless  we  see  that  their  disparagement  of  per- 
sonality and  intellectual  suggestion  and  their  emphasis  upon 
splendor  and  interpretive  decoration  was  largely  due  to  the 
materials  of  which  they  were  made  and  the  process  which  the 
artist  was  compelled  to  employ.  It  is  folly  to  attempt  to 
make  a  picture  with  mosaic  or  a  statue  with  paint.  When 
we  see  art  developing  preferences  in  subject  and  manner  on 
account  of  the  materials  or  the  processes  in  use,  we  can 
understand  that  development  only  by  taking  account  of  these 
processes  and  materials.  So  much  we  shall  try  to  do,  and 
only  so  much,  and  this  too  in  an  utterly  untechnical  manner. 
Into  the  maze  of  studio  jargon  and  studio  procedure  we  shall 
not  try  to  penetrate.  Not  only  is  this  a  process  of  enormous 
difficulty  for  the  layman,  it  is  distinctly  prejudicial  to  his 
enjoyment  of  art.  The  studio  bears  the  same  relation  to  art 
that  the  kitchen  does  to  the  banquet.  The  proof  of  the 
pudding  is  in  the  eating,  not  in  the  cooking.  It  is  not  through 
the  kitchen  that  the  guests  are  taken  to  the  feast. 

To  interpret  art  we  must  trace  the  development  of  its 
ideals.     Shaped  by  many  forces,  by  the  social  order,  by 


Introduction 


contact  with  other  peoples,  by  natural  environment,  and  by 
fear  of  the  gods,  ideals  change  as  these  things  change.  The 
outward  forms  of  art  are  but  reflections  of  the  ideals  of  a 
given  time  and  place.  We  take  up  the  art  of  a  period  or  a 
people  that  is  past  as  we  open  a  manuscript  which  records 
in  a  half  forgotten  tongue  things  great  and  worthy  to  be 
known.  Whether  it  be  on  papyrus  or  parchment  and  written 
with  a  stylus  or  a  pen,  need  concern  us  only  if  it  help  us  to 
decipher  something  ambiguous  or  obscure.  The  great 
question  must  ever  be,  what  does  it  tell  us?  In  what  way 
can  it  enlarge  the  thoughts  of  the  living  by  its  message  from 
the  dead  ? 

None  can  realize  better  than  the  writer  the  inadequacy 
of  his  work.  Years  of  closest  intimacy  with  the  art  he  is 
endeavoring  to  interpret  have  been  years  of  enforced  isolation 
from  the  interpretive  thoughts  of  other  workers.  Many  a 
thing  here  hinted  has  elsewhere  been  fully  revealed;  many 
an  error  here  committed  has  long  since  found  correction, 
probably  in  works  accessible  to  many  readers.  Above  all, 
the  vista  here  opened  stretches  visibly  beyond  where  his 
thought  can  lead.  So  be  it.  He  has  waited  long  for  the 
leisure  to  amplify  his  thought  by  reading  and  check  his  con- 
clusions with  those  of  other  men.  It  is  not  to  be.  If  the 
inspiration  which  prompts  these  pages  is  to  be  in  any  measure 
conveyed  to  the  reader,  it  must  be  by  the  freshness  born  of 
this  first  hand  contact  and  not  by  exhaustiveness  of  collateral 
research. 

To  this  habit  of  first  hand  contact  must  be  attributed  two 
characteristics  of  the  book  which  may  seem  peculiar.  The 
first  is  the  writer's  constant  mental  assumption  that  we  are 
making  our  way  to  the  church  or  gallery  in  question  and 
standing  in  the  visible  presence  of  that  which  we  are  studying. 
This  mental  assumption  is  in  part  inevitable  and  in  part 
deliberate.  Twenty  years  of  work  with  classes  in  the  presence 
of  these  works  themselves  has  fixed  indelibly  upon  his  imagina- 


Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


tion,  not  only  the  picture  or  statue,  but  the  building,  the 
windows,  and  the  light,  the  seats  upon  which  we  sit,  even  the 
garbed  sacristan  with  his  keys  or  the  smart  uniformed  cus- 
todian whose  perfunctory  attendance  has  in  these  later  years 
been  slowly  humanized  by  the  smile  of  friendly  recognition. 
To  conjure  away  these  accessories  which  haye  slowly  woven 
themselves  into  one  great  fabric  of  the  imagination  would  be 
neither  possible  nor  congenial.  The  radiance  which  lives 
about  these  immortal  works,  has  touched  with  its  own  glory 
these  accidents  of  time  and  place.  But  that  which  has  thus 
become  a  necessity  is  also  choice.  In  the  realm  of  books, 
with  their  shadowy  symbols  and  their  ghosts  of  persons  and 
things,  all  meanings  are  minimized  by  this  loss  of  the  sense 
of  reality.  To  the  reader,  the  name,  Italy,  comes  to  suggest 
a  brown  leather  binding  on  the  third  library  shelf,  or  a  boot- 
shaped  patch  of  yellow  on  an  atlas  page.  To  such  a  back- 
ground of  the  concrete  it  is  impossible  to  attach  the  realities 
of  Italy.  If,  therefore,  the  reader  of  this  book  can  be  made 
to  forget  his  book,  and  to  picture  to  himself  ever  so  feebly  a 
walk  through  a  Florentine  street,  a  quiet  corner  between 
chapel  walls,  and  a  thing  of  color  and  shape  before  him,  he 
will  have  begun  to  acquire  that  sense  of  reality  which  can 
alone  give  value  to  other  impressions. 

The  second  and  more  serious  fact  which  this  habit  must 
explain  is  the  absolute  dependence  of  the  text  upon  illustra- 
tions. In  discussing  a  picture,  no  attempt  has  been  made  to 
describe  it,  that  is,  to  construct  it  in  imagination.  Suppose 
a  lecturer  should  begin  his  discussion  of  the  Sistine  Madonna 
by  drawing  it  upon  the  blackboard.  Absurdly  inadequate, 
you  say,  yet  far  more  adequate  than  any  word  picture,  even 
the  most  skillful.  At  every  step  in  these  discussions  the 
picture  or  statue  is  referred  to  as  though  we  were  in  its 
presence.  It  is  useless  to  talk  about  art  unless,  in  some 
measure,  we  have  the  art  to  talk  about.  This  book  contains 
reproductions  of   125  of  the  most  important  subjects  for 


Introduction 


study ;  obviously  all  the  available  illustrative  material  could 
not  be  included  within  the  limits  of  this  volume.  ^  The 
reader  cannot  be  too  strongly  urged  to  seek  his  impressions 
of  art  from  art  itself,  using  word  suggestion  only  as  a  supple- 
ment, never  as  a  substitute.  Our  age,  for  peculiar  reasons, 
labors  under  the  impression  that  words  are  the  only  real  and 
final  medium  for  the  expression  of  ideas,  whereas  they  are 
neither  the  only  nor  the  best  medium  for  ideas  of  a  certain 
kind,  and  for  certain  ideas  of  the  highest  value  they  are 
wholly  unavailable.  Form  and  feature  were  eloquent  before 
speech  was  born  and  will  be  when  speech  is  forgotten.  Not  a 
little  time  can  profitably  be  spent  in  verifying  the  suggestions 
of  the  text,  the  whole  being  reinforced  by  a  pictorial  review 
when  each  chapter  is  finished.  If  the  reader,  accustomed  to 
the  effortless  perusal  of  modern  fiction,  chafes  under  this 
retardation  of  his  pace,  the  writer  can  only  express  his  sym- 
pathy, reminding  him  the  while  that  the  difficulties  thus 
incurred  are  not  of  his  choosing  but  inhere  rather  in  the 
subject.  Every  resource  at  his  disposal  has  been  drawn  upon 
to  reduce  the  labor  which  these  studies  involve.  He  has 
striven  to  give  in  an  hour  so  much  as  may  be  given  of  that 
which  he  has  acquired  in  a  year.  But  the  path  up  Parnassus 
was  ever  toilsome,  and  the  pilgrim  who  would  make  it  wholly 
easy  will  find  his  shrine  at  the  foot. 

1  Among  the  various  series  of  penny  prints,  "  The  University  Prints  "  is  suffi- 
ciently comprehensive  to  furnish  all  the  material  required.  Series  especially 
prepared  for  the  readers  of  this  book  are  available  at  moderate  cost.  One  series 
is  a  duplicate  of  the  125  subjects  reproduced  in  this  book  by  arrangement  with 
the  University  Print  publishers.  A  second  supplemental  series  of  125  arranged 
by  chapters  is  listed  at  the  back  of  the  book.  In  using  collections  of  separate 
prints  it  is  advantageous  for  the  reader  to  begin  each  chapter  by  selecting  the 
necessary  illustrations,  and  arranging  them  in  the  proper  order  so  that  reference 
to  them  is  easy.  It  is  better  to  have  them  spread  out  rather  than  piled  one 
above  the  other,  as  comparison  is  often  highly  important.  So  far  as  possible, 
too,  the  necessity  for  handling  them  should  be  avoided,  as  this  makes  reading 
laborious  and  too  often  discourages  the  attempt.  The  prints  can  be  arranged 
on  a  desk  or  table.  Some  will  resort  to  the  more  difficult  but  admirable  method 
of  fastening  them  to  an  upright  board  or  even  to  a  door  where  the  light  is  good 
and  the  reader  can  sit  at  close  range. 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  AFTERGLOW   OF   GREECE 


Naples  is  not  associated  in  the  mind  of  the  traveler  with 
art.  Her  attractions  are  her  picturesque  squalor  and  the  far 
famed  natural  beauty  of  her  surroundings.  Yet  if  we  care 
for  "the  things  that  are  more  excellent,"  we  are  here  upon 
holy  ground,  for  Naples  was  an  outpost  of  that  civihzation 
which  the  world  still  reveres  as  the  highest,  and  her  great 
Museum  is  a  reliquary  with  which  few  others  can  compare. 
The  very  name,  Naples,  Nea-polis,  New  City,  is  Greek,  for 
here,  on  the  site  of  what  is  now  known  as  Old  Naples,  the 
Greeks  built  the  newest  of  that  beautiful  chain  of  cities  which, 
beginning  with  Cumae  on  the  headlands  at  the  northwest  cor- 
ner of  the  bay,  stretched  on  through  Parthenope,  where  the 
hotels  of  Naples  now  stand,  through  Herculaneum  and  Pom- 
peii and  Nuceria  and  Pa3stum,  on  indefinitely  to  the  toe  and 
round  the  heel  of  the  boot,  not  forgetting  Sicily,  which  they 
wrested  almost  entire  from  Phoenician  Carthage.  And  here 
accident  and  calamity  have  preserved  to  us  things  that  else- 
where have  been  destroyed  in  the  art  of  the  Greeks.  It  is 
not  the  art  of  Athens,  for  we  are  out  on  the  frontier  of  Hellas, 
where  the  stream  from  the  central  spring  ran  turbid  with 
many  a  foreign  admixture,  but  it  is  not  the  less  significant. 
We  see  as  through  a  glass,  darkly,  but  the  thing  we  see  is 
Greek. 

As  we  enter  the  great  Museum,  we  will  pay  no  attention  for 
the  moment  to  the  Greek  bronzes,  most  precious  in  the  world, 
nor  to  the  marbles,  —  not  because  they  do  not  deserve  atten- 
tion, but  because  they  deserve  more  attention  than  we  can 

8 


The  Afterglow  of  Greece 


now  give.  He  who  would  enter  into  the  spirit  of  that  in- 
effable art  must  not  cumber  himself  with  lesser  cares. 

Mounting  the  great  stairway  of  the  Museum  to  the  first 
entrance  on  the  right,  we  enter  a  series  of  low  rooms  whose 
walls  are  covered  with  frescoes  taken  from  the  houses  of 
Pompeii.  Most  are  cheap  and  poor,  but  a  few  are  admirable, 
like  Achilles  and  Briseis,  the  Centaur  teaching  Achilles  to 
play  the  lyre,  the  despairing  Medea,  and  so  forth,  copies,  all 
of  them,  of  Greek  masterpieces  whose  character  we  can  partly 
guess  from  these  humble  reproductions.  But  our  attention  i? 
chiefly  attracted  to  a  tripod  at  the  end  of  the  first  room,  upon 
whose  revolving  sides  are  mounted  the  only  real  Greek  paint- 
ings the  world  possesses.  A  few  thin  slabs  of  marble  such  as 
the  Greeks  used  for  this  purpose,  and  the  Greeks  only,  and 
which  must  therefore  have  been  imported  from  Greece  itself, 
bear  the  faded  remains  of  the  greatest  of  Greek  arts.  For 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  word,  art,  suggested  to  the 
Greek  mind,  as  to  our  own,  primarily  painting.  Socrates 
was  by  profession  a  sculptor,  and  penitent  Athens,  long  after 
his  death,  preserved  religiously  a  humble  work  of  his  in  the 
Propylea,  on  the  Acropolis  itself,  yet  when  he  discusses  the 
principles  of  art  with  his  disciples,  he  draws  all  his  illustra- 
tions from  painting.  The  professional  bias  would  certainly 
have  inclined  the  other  way,  but  his  hearers  were  more  fa- 
miliar with  painting,  and,  triie  teacher  that  he  was,  he  adapts 
himself  to  their  needs.  Greek  painting  has  perished,  and 
Greek  bronzes  have  been  melted  up,  and  so  we  are  left  to 
draw  our  inferences  almost  wholly  from  Greek  marble  sculp- 
ture, but  we  must  not  forget  that  this  was  the  less  important 
form  of  the  less  important  art  as  the  Greeks  regarded  it. 
Further,  it  was  not  Greek  sculpture  which  gave  birth  to  Chris- 
tian art,  but  Greek  painting.  We  must  therefore  husband 
with  jealous  care  such  slender  data  as  we  possess  for  the  study 
of  this  noble  art. 

The  little  paintings  upon  the  tripod  are  not  representative. 


lo  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

One  (B  3)  represents  a  graceful  group  of  girls,  two  of  them 
playing  jack-stones  or  knuckle-bones,  which  they  toss  in  the  air 
and  catch  upon  the  back  of  their  pretty  hands.  Others  stand, 
doing  nothing  in  particular,  but  so  disposing  themselves  that 
their  beautiful  arms  form  charming  braided  patterns  across 
the  scene.  Classic  profiles,  artistic  coiffures,  and  lovely  drap- 
eries complete  the  dainty  whole.  It  is  art  in  lighter  vein,  as 
are  all  the  others,  even  the  splendid  chariot  and  charioteer 
which  can  hardly  have  had  a  serious  meaning.  There  is  no 
deep  sentiment  or  soul-stirring  incident.  It  is  a  thing  flung 
off  by  a  facile  hand,  a  suggestion  of  the  wealth  with  which 
Greek  art  inundated  even  the  little  shallows  of  ancient  life. 
Yet  the  very  triviality  of  these  things  has  its  significance,  for 
,  they  are  infinitely  perfect  in  some  of  the  great  elements  of 
art.  The  drawing  is  such  as  will  bring  a  thrill  to  the  veriest 
novice,  so  amazingly  delicate  are  the  lines,  the  postures  and 
the  groupings  of  these  nameless  personalities.  If  the  bric-a- 
brac  makers  of  Greece  could  give  us  such  things  as  these, 
what  must  have  been  the  works  of  Parrhasius  and  Apelles? 

Some  of  the  better  achievements  of  Greek  art  are  suggested, 
however  imperfectly,  in  the  Pompeiian  wall  paintings  above 
referred  to.  For  the  most  part,  these  are  copies  of  Greek 
masterpieces.  All  are  degraded  by  the  copyist's  touch,  some 
hopelessly  so,  and  that  increasingly  as  we  come  to  works  of 
a  later  period.  For  this  is  the  great  lesson  which  we  have  to 
learn  as  we  wander  through  Italy  on  our  quest,  that  despite 
her  splendid  achievements  of  a  later  time,  she  failed  to  under- 
stand the  wonderful  art  whose  later  direction  was  entrusted 
to  her,  and  so  degraded  and  debauched  it  increasingly  as  she 
slowly  gave  freer  scope  to  her  own  instincts. 

But  some  of  these  paintings,  which  reflect  a  Greek  style 
rather  than  copy  a  Greek  masterpiece,  are  especially  worthy 
of  attention.  They  are  panels  on  which  are  represented  in 
sketchiest  possible  manner,  in  delicate  tones,  charged  heavily 
with  atmosphere,  an  idyllic  landscape,  with  a  figure  or  two 


B  3,  Maidens  Playing  with  Jackstones.    National  Museum,  Naples. 
Painting  on  Marble  from  Herculaneum. 


12  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

wandering  not  too  conspicuously  nor  yet  too  meaningfully 
down  the  dreamy  perspective.  These  Greek  imaginings  have 
suffered  sadly  from  the  rude  contact  of  Vesuvian  ashes,  and 
still  more  from  the  heavy  incubus  of  Roman  patronage,  but 
they  are  strongly  suggestive  of  some  of  the  latest  achieve- 
ments in  art.  These  pale  glimpses  of  the  Elysian  Fields  re- 
mind us  not  a  little  of  the  work  of  the  inspired  Frenchman 
through  whose  hallowed  dreamland  we  follow  in  quest  of 
Sainte  Genevieve.  Our  apologies  to  him  for  suggesting  too 
close  an  analogy  between  his  creations  and  these  humble  and 
disfigured  things,  but  if  our  imagination  is  able  to  find  its 
way  through  their  disfigurement  to  the  glorious  masterpieces 
which  suggested  them,  then  our  apologies  are  due  to  the 
Greek. 

But  the  great  Museum  has  a  still  further  revelation  for  us 
in  one  of  the  halls  below.  Here,  surrounded  by  statues,  is  a 
large  mosaic,  the  so-called  "Battle  of  Issus"  (B  14),  in  which 
it  is  easy  to  recognize  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  Greek  paint- 
ing. It  is  partially  destroyed,  but  the  supreme  figures  of  the 
composition,  Alexander  and  Darius,  are  plainly  discernible, 
and  the  action  and  sentiment  unmistakable.  Perhaps  this 
is  as  near  as  we  shall  ever  come  to  one  of  the  great  Greek 
masters  of  painting,  a  master  of  the  first  rank  and  of  the 
golden  days  of  Alexander  himself  or  his  early  successors.  It 
is  therefore  worth  our  while  to  give  it  our  careful  attention. 

The  subject  is  obviously  one  of  Alexander's  battles.  The 
conqueror  is  rushing  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  himself 
the  most  redoubtable  of  this  redoubtable  host.  The  fate 
of  the  day  is  decided,  the  Persians  are  in  retreat,  and  the 
charioteer  of  the  vanquished  Darius,  in  an  agony  of  fear, 
is  lashing  his  horses  for  flight.  Looking  closer  we  see  that 
the  spear  of  Alexander  has  thrust  through  one  of  Darius' 
bodyguard,  one  of  his  paladins,  and  in  helpless  sympathy, 
the  monarch,  whose  very  life  is  at  stake,  reaches  out  an 
impotent  arm  to  help  his  fallen  companion.    Something  of 


14  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

poetic  license,  no  doubt,  in  this  condensing  of  the  long  line  of 
battle  which  brings  the  two  monarchs  within  a  spear's  length 
of  each  other,  but  marvelous  fideUty  to  the  spirit  of  the 
onset  and  the  rout,  as  also  to  the  character  of  the  two  chief 
personalities.  The  humanity  of  the  unfortunate  monarch 
is  as  well  attested  as  the  headlong  bravado  of  the  conqueror. 

But  our  admiration  for  these  things  easily. blinds  us  to  the 
extraordinary  difficulties  which  such  a  theme  involves  and 
the  genius  with  which  these  difiiculties  have  been  overcome. 
It  will  not  do  to  have  pictures  rush  headlong  away  from  one 
end  of  their  imprisoned  space  to  pile  up  unrestrained  at  the 
other.  Pictures  must  contain  themselves,  willingly,  as  it 
were,  within  their  appropriate  limits.  They  must  find  their 
interest  in  the  center,  or,  more  exactly,  in  the  upper  center, 
toward  which  all  must  seem  to  gravitate.  But  how  shall  we 
make  this  charge  and  rout,  which  sweeps  past  like  a  cyclone, 
gravitate  toward  the  center?  Our  artist  is  equal  to  the 
difficult  task. 

The  problem  is  essentially  one  of  directing  the  observer's 
attention.  The  picture  must  not  run  away  with  itself.  The 
rush  from  the  left  must  be  counterbalanced  by  suggestions 
from  the  right.  These  suggestions,  however  varied,  all 
reduce,  in  painting,  to  two,  which  we  may  call  eye-paths  and 
mental  suggestion. 

The  eye,  like  the  feet,  travels  easily  and  willingly  where 
there  are  paths,  and  unwillingly  or  not  at  all  across  lots.  A 
picture  that  has  convenient  eye-paths  is  easily  seen  and 
remembered;  one  that  lacks  such  paths  is  hard  to  see  and 
soon  forgotten.  In  extreme  cases  the  eye  will  simply  balk, 
and  refuse  to  do  its  work  altogether.  Eye-paths  are  in  gen- 
eral, lines  of  light  or  of  strong,  stimulating  color.  Often 
they  are  successive  masses  of  such  light  or  color  arranged 
stepping-stone  fashion,  disconnected  but  easy  to  follow. 
Even  dark  lines,  clearly  defined  against  a  light  neutral  ground, 
catch  and  guide  the  eye. 


The  Afterglow  of  Greece  15 

Mental  suggestion  is  rather  a  push  or  impulse  given  to  the 
mind,  sending  attention  in  a  certain  direction.  If  we  see  a 
crowd  of  people  looking  in  a  certain  direction,  we  look  in 
the  same  direction  to  see  what  they  are  looking  at.  Gesture, 
movement,  or  leaning  of  the  body,  anything  that  indicates 
that  the  person's  thought  or  feeling  is  moving  in  a  certain 
direction,  will  send  ours  in  the  same  direction. 

Let  us  notice  the  devices  by  which  the  artist  has  checked 
the  movement  of  retreat  and  set  up  counter  movement 
toward  the  center  to  offset  the  movement  of  the  charge. 

First,  the  Persians  are  in  retreat  and  their  spears,  carried 
over  their  shoulders,  form  eye-paths  leading  us  toward  the 
upper  center.  More  suggestive  still,  the  horses,  lashed  to 
flight,  seem  to  balk  in  terror.  This  not  only  heightens  the 
terrible  strain  of  the  situation,  but  the  horses'  legs  again 
lead  the  eye  in  the  desired  direction.  Above  all,  the  leaning 
figure  of  Darius  gives  the  same  backward  movement. 

But  here  we  come  to  our  second  factor,  mental  suggestion. 
Let  us  imagine  that  Darius,  instead  of  turning  and  reaching 
out  to  his  companion,  were  facing  forward  and  merely  tipped 
backward,  perhaps  by  the  sudden  start  of  the  chariot.  The 
line  of  the  body  would  have  been  the  same  as  now,  leading 
the  eye  in  the  desired  direction,  but  the  mental  suggestion 
would  have  been  quite  the  reverse.  His  thought  would  have 
reached  forward  and  would  have  carried  our  thought  with  it. 
As  it  is,  mind  and  sense  ahke  conspire  to  arrest  the  dan- 
gerous rush  of  the  picture  and  direct  us  aright. 

By  the  use  of  these  subtle  means  we  have  in  a  highly  devel- 
oped form  what  the  artists  call  a  composition,  an  arrange- 
ment studied  with  reference  alike  to  requirements  of  action 
and  Ufe,  and  the  hmitations  of  pictorial  representation. 
But  there  is  still  another  thing  to  note  which  artists  them- 
selves too  often  forget,  but  which  our  artist  certainly  remem- 
bered. When  we  have  gotten  lines,  masses  and  mental 
suggestion  all  properly  arranged,  and  composition  faultless. 


1 6  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

our  picture  may  still  be  poor  art,  because  we  have  used 
trivial  or  improbable  motives  to  secure  the  necessary  arrange- 
ment and  action.  Darius  must  lean  backward,  must,  if 
possible,  think  backward,  but  suppose  he  leaned  back  to 
scream  in  terror  or  beg  for  mercy.  The  picture  would  be 
composed  as  now,  would  perhaps  be  as  true  to  nature  as  now, 
but  it  would  be  cheap  art.  Worse  still,  if,  as  often  happens, 
the  position  suggests  a  trivial  motive,  or  no  motive  at  all. 
The  composition,  no  matter  how  perfect,  then  ceases  to  be 
art  altogether.  No,  the  composition  must  unfold  naturally, 
actuated  by  great  impulses  that  have  dignity  and  beauty  of 
their  own. 

Note  how  magnificently  our  artist  has  met  this  require- 
ment. Here  is  the  ruler  of  a  vast  empire  who  has  lost  every- 
thing, and  whose  life  itself  is  in  instant  danger,  and  yet  at 
this  supreme  moment,  he  forgets  himself  and  his  peril,  and 
his  very  soul  goes  out  in  an  agony  of  impotent  sympathy  at 
the  sight  of  the  death  of  his  faithful  companion.  Humanity 
knows  no  loftier  sentiment  than  self -forgetting  devotion, 
than  love  which  recks  not  of  danger  and  hopes  not  for  reward. 
Our  artist  has  given  us  a  great  composition  motived  by  a 
great  sentiment.  This  is  art.  This  picture  is  the  equal  of 
the  greatest  masterpieces  of  Christian  art.  As  a  master- 
piece, both  of  composition  and  technical  skill,  and  as  an 
expression  of  the  noblest  sentiments,  the  Battle  of  Issus  and 
the  Sistine  Madonna  may  claim  an  equal  place  in  our 
regard. 

But  let  us  hasten  to  add  that  the  picture  as  we  now  find  it, 
is  far  from  being  entitled  to  unqualified  praise.  We  must 
look  through  a  thick  and  obscuring  veil  if  we  are  to  find  the 
master  we  are  seeking,  for  a  Roman  had  the  inconceivable 
taste  to  have  this  picture  copied  in  mosaic  for  his  dining-room 
floor.  Who  would  decorate  his  dining-room  floor  with  a 
copy  of  the  Sistine  Madonna  ?  It  would  be  quite  as  appro- 
priate. 


The  Afterglow  of  Greece  17 

We  all  feel  that  such  a  use  of  the  picture  is  wrong,  but  why  ? 
It  will  pay  us  to  analyze  our  feelings. 

In  the  first  place,  we  do  not  want  to  walk  on  Darius  and 
Alexander,  or  on  commoner  folk,  or  upon  horses  or  li\'ing 
things  of  any  sort.  Even  realistic  roses  and  the  like  will 
slightly  deter  the  sensitive  footstep.  This  may  seem  to  be 
an  over  delicate  sensitiveness,  but  it  is  precisely  in  this 
domain  of  the  subtler  sentiments  that  art  has  its  home. 

In  the  second  place,  even  if  these  forms  were  of  inanimate 
things,  we  do  not  want  to  walk  over  humps  and  holes  in  the 
floor.  For  it  must  be  remembered  that  modeled  forms 
seem  to  protrude  from  the  backgroimd,  and  that  perspective 
suggests  depth,  which  in  a  floor  becomes  humps  and  holes. 
It  is  not  enough  to  say  that  they  are  only  imaginary.  It  is 
in  the  imagination  that  art  lives  and  moves  and  has  its  being. 
When  we  can  have  our  floor  smooth  only  by  thinking  away 
the  picture,  we  destroy  the  art  which  we  have  been  at  such 
pains  to  create.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  never  can  get  such  a 
floor  quite  smooth.  If  we  could  measure  our  nervous  outlay, 
we  should  find  that  we  are  twice  as  tired  after  walking  a 
day  on  such  a  floor,  as  after  walking  on  one  of  normal  charac- 
ter. 

It  has  perhaps  occurred  to  the  thoughtful  reader  that 
while  our  first  difficulty,  that  of  walking  on  men  and  living 
things,  does  not  hold  if  the  picture  is  on  the  side  wall,  the 
second  objection  does  hold  a  little.  After  all,  a  wall  suffers 
somewhat  when  in  imagination,  it  is  full  of  humps  and  holes. 
If  the  wall  is  wholly  without  importance,  this  objection 
dwindles,  but  if  it  bounds  a  room  of  real  character  and  beauty, 
particularly  if  the  wall  is  of  special  shape  upon  which  all  the 
beauty  depends,  as  in  the  case  of  a  dome,  a  vault  or  a  tribune, 
we  should  hesitate  to  thus  mentally  mar  its  surface.  This 
is  a  very  subtle  consideration,  but  one  which,  we  shall  see, 
will  never  quite  allow  itself  to  be  ignored.  The  effort  to 
preserve  the  integrity  of  the  wall,  its  flatness  and  comeliness 


1 8  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

and  to  keep  as  vivid  and  intact  as  possible  the  great  archi- 
tectural  shapes  which  this  wall  helps  to  define,  exerts  a  con- 
tinual pressure  upon  pictorial'  art,  warring  against  perspec- 
tive and  tending  toward  a  compromise  form  of  art  with  flat 
figures  and  shallow  space  or  none.  This  compromise  art, 
especially  when  certain  other  features  are  added  which  the 
next  chapter  will  suggest,  is  appropriately  known  as  decora- 
tive, as  contrasted  with  pictorial. 

Our  study  of  Greek  painting  must  include  at  least  one 
more  famous  example,  the  Aldobrandini  Marriage  (B  13)  of 
the  Vatican  Library.  It  is  doubtless  a  copy,  but  an  excellent 
one,  and  in  its  dignified,  simple  beauty  and  its  delicate  ideal- 
ism it  must  be  very  near  to  the  Greek  original.  With  no 
such  qualifications,  therefore,  as  in  the  last  case,  we  may 
take  it  as  representative  of  Greek  art. 

The  picture  represents,  in  a  long  panel,  and  partly  in 
literal,  partly  in  symbolical  figures,  a  marriage,  or  let  us  say, 
marriage,  a  theme  also  represented  with  marvellous  beauty 
in  some  of  the  Greek  marble  reliefs.  The  long  panel  being 
difficult  to  compose  without  monotony,  the  artist  has  formed 
three  groups  which  he  realizes  must  be  carefully  linked  in 
one,  if  it  is  to  have  the  unity  which  is  indispensable  to  a 
picture.  In  the  center  is  the  nuptial  bed  at  the  right  of  which 
sits  the  ardent  bridegroom,  while  on  the  other  side  the  god- 
dess Aphrodite  endues  the  abashed  bride  with  charm.  To 
the  right  is  the  altar  of  libation  with  priestess  and  brides- 
maids, one  of  whom  pours  the  libation,  while  the  other,  a 
girl  of  singularly  modest  grace,  dances  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  lyre  and  song.  To  the  left  are  preparations  for  cere- 
monial ablution  in  charge  of  a  matron,  with  exquisitely  toned 
and  subdued  figures  of  servants  in  the  background.  With 
this  brief  enumeration,  let  us  notice  the  far-reaching  thought- 
fulness  and  resource  of  our  painter. 

First,  these  three  groups  must  be  united  or  we  shall  have 
three  pictures  instead  of  one,  and  the  joint  effect  will  be 


20  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

quite  lost.  As  we  have  seen,  this  connection  can  be  effected 
in  only  two  ways. 

There  must  be  a  physical  connection  which  tempts  the 
eye  to  follow,  or  there  must  be  a  mental  connection,  an 
obvious  reaching  out  of  attention  from  one  to  the  other. 
The  right-hajid  group  is  composed  of  human  beings,  and  as 
the  theme  centers  about  the  most  delicate  of  human  relations, 
the  artist  does  not  wish  to  intrude  the  conscious  observation 
of  these  people  upon  the  privacy  of  the  bride  and  groom. 
With  fine  perception,  therefore,  he  makes  this  beautiful 
group  self-contained  and  conscious  of  the  bridegroom's  pas- 
sion. But  the  white  robes  of  these  lovely  bridesmaids,  curv- 
ing gracefully  outward  on  either  side,  carry  the  eye  along  fine 
curving  lines  to  the  foot  of  the  bridegroom,  whose  gracefully 
relaxed  leg  leads  the  eye  easily  to  the  central  picture.  The 
group  on  the  extreme  left  is  even  more  sundered  from  the 
central  group,  yet  must  somehow  connect  with  it.  Here 
the  artist  makes  use  of  an  intermediate  figure,  a  goddess  as 
we  know  from  the  half  nude,  the  conventional  sign  of  divinity 
in  the  later  Greek  art.  She  stands  plainly  with  the  left- 
hand  group,  but  she  leans  toward  the  bridal  group  and  looks 
toward  them,  as  a  goddess,  conceived  as  invisible  to  mortals, 
may  appropriately  do.  Being  with  one  group  in  body  and 
with  the  other  in  spirit,  she  effectually  unites  the  two. 

But  this  picture  is  full  of  a  subtler  kind  of  harmony  which 
we  have  not  met  before  and  which  it  will  be  long  ere  we  meet 
in  like  measure  again.  The  central  group  is  broad,  stable 
and  sloping,  such  a  group  as  Leonardo,  nearly  two  thousand 
years  later,  taught  the  Florentines  to  prize.  Taking  its 
prominent  outlines  as  a  starting  point,  there  is  a  marked 
tendency  of  the  minor  lines  to  become  rhythmical  with  these, 
a  tendency  much  like  rhyme  and  meter  in  poetry.  The 
sloping  figure  of  the  bride  gives  us  a  prominent  line,  empha- 
sized by  limb  and  drapery.  Notice  the  harmonics ;  the  right 
arm  and  right  leg  of  the  bridegroom,  the  figure  and  limb  of 


The  Afterglow  of  Greece  21 

Aphrodite,  the  figure  of  the  other  goddess,  the  skirt  of  the 
bridesmaid.  There  is  a  like  rhythm  in  the  alternation  of 
light  and  shade.  Everything  is  as  carefully  weighed  and 
disposed  as  is  every  syllable  in  Tennyson's  poems,  yet  nothing 
seems  forced  or  artificial.  Withal,  it  is  imbued  with  a 
sentiment  that  is  truly  nuptial,  but  elevated  and  refined. 
How  easily  the  slightest  ill-considered  look  or  act  could  have 
dropped  this  into  the  very  abyss. 

The  reader  who  is  little  accustomed  to  analyze  composition 
may  be  restive  under  these  suggestions.  He  would  do  well 
to  bear  in  mind  the  close  analogy  of  poetry.  Every  reader 
is  aware  that  poetry  consists  of  two  things,  sentiment  and 
form.  Fine  sentiments  do  not  in  themselves  make  a  poem. 
There  must  be  the  sensuous  element  of  rhyme  and  meter, 
an  element  having  no  intellectual  character,  but  profoundly 
influencing  our  feeling  and  so  in  its  own  way  largely  deter- 
mining the  sentiment  itself.  This  picture  is  a  beautiful 
sentiment  clothed  in  beautiful  form.  Without  this  alterna- 
tion of  light  and  dark,  this  rhythm  of  groups  and  of  lines,  it 
would  be  a  beautiful  sentiment  still,  but  it  would  not  be  a 
poem.  It  would  not  be  art,  but  merely  the  raw  material  of 
art. 

We  have  devoted  this  prolonged  attention  to  these  few 
examples  of  Greek  painting,  partly  because  of  their  own 
great  excellence  and  the  greatness  of  the  art  which  they 
represent,  and  partly  because  these  principles  belong  to  all 
art  and  will  recur  continually  in  our  later  study.  Scarce  a 
single  lesson  can  be  mastered  without  recalling  these  problems 
of  place  and  form,  of  decoration  and  picture,  which  we  shall 
never  find  exemplified  more  beautifully  or  more  simply  than 
in  these  few  faint  traces  of  that  greatest  art  which  the  disas- 
ters of  our  fitful  civilization  have  as  yet  not  quite  effaced. 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW  ART  BECAME   CHRISTIAN 

It  is  with  varied  emotions  that  the  thoughtful  traveler 
enters  the  Eternal  City.  There  are  visions  of  early  struggles 
and  civic  virtue,  of  sudden  empire  and  garish  opulence,  of 
dissoluteness  fed  by  the  loot  of  cities  and  the  tribute  of  subject 
provinces.  There  are  memories  of  barbarian  vengeance  and 
devasted  Italy,  of  ruined  fortunes  and  forgotten  arts,  of 
crumbling  civilization  and  life  again  straitened  within  the 
horizon  of  barbarian  ignorance.  And  then  arises  that  other 
Rome  of  the  popes,  its  Hfe  still  fed  by  tribute  known  as 
Peter's  Pence.  And  finally  there  is  the  Rome  of  to-day, 
whose  ambitious  modernism,  masking  the  monuments  of 
church  and  empire,  has  not  yet  won  the  suffrage  of  our 
hearts.     What  city  is  like  unto  Rome! 

The  art  of  Imperial  Rome  is  too  closely  allied  to  that  of 
Greece  to  permit  of  full  consideration  in  a  work  from  which 
Greek  art  is  excluded.  Roman  sculpture  and  painting  are 
as  nearly  Greek  as  Romans  were  able  to  make  them,  which 
is  not  so  very  near,  but  such  significance  as  they  have  requires 
consideration  in  that  connection.  Rome  was  indebted  to 
other  peoples  for  some  of  the  excellences  and  defects  of  her 
art,  but  it  is  significant  that  her  art  is  usually  spoken  of  as 
GrcBco-RomsLTi.  For  the  most  part,  it  is  obviously  a  joint 
product,  in  which  all  that  is  excellent  is  Greek.  During  the 
period  of  barbarian  invasion  and  disaster,  this  Graeco-Roman 
art  perished,  or  degenerated  into  forms  so  primitive  as  to 
bear  little  resemblance  to  that  from  which  they  originated. 
When,  after  a  long  interval,  sculpture  and  painting  revived, 

22 


How  Art  became  Christian  23 

it  was  under  conditions  so  different  that  Greek  influence  was 
little  felt,  even  during  the  period  of  conscious  retrospect 
and  imitation.  All  that  is  best  in  Christian  art  is  essentially 
a  new  product,  born  of  an  established  faith  and  a  fully  organ- 
ized society.  Only  after  some  study  do  we  become  con- 
scious of  a  real  connection  between  this  new  art  and  the 
great  art  that  had  perished  a  thousand  years  before. 

But  during  this  long  period  of  disaster  and  prostration, 
there  was  one  art  that  never  died,  the  Mosaics.  This  art 
was  known  to  the  Greeks  and  even  to  the  Egyptians,  but  it 
owed  Httle  to  either.  It  is  essentially  a  Roman  art,  and 
substantially  their  only  creation.  This  may  perhaps  account 
for  its  vitality,  for  its  survival  under  conditions  which  were 
fatal  to  the  borrowed  arts.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  important 
to  remember  that  the  mosaics  witnessed  the  advent  of 
Christianity,  and  in  their  development  recorded  its  early 
impulses  and  ideals. 

Mosaic  is,  in  essence,  a  design,  pictorial  or  decorative, 
which  is  made  by  piecing  together  bits  of  stone  or  other  hard 
material.  Mosaics  are  generally  classified  as  sectile  or 
tesselated,  though  there  are  many  variations  and  intermediate 
forms. 

In  sectile  mosaic,  a  whole  pattern  or  some  characteristic 
portion  of  it,  is  cut  out  of  a  thin  piece  of  stone  carefully 
selected  for  color.  Thus,  in  a  floral  design,  a  leaf  is  cut 
from  a  piece  of  green  stone,  a  petal  from  white  or  colored 
stone,  and  so  forth.  When  these  are  completed,  they  are 
inserted  into  holes  of  the  same  size  and  shape,  cut  in  black 
or  neutral  stone,  and  the  whole  is  then  backed  up  with  cement, 
and  the  surface  polished.  Such  are  the  Florentine  mosaics, 
so  popular  with  tourists.  Even  pictorial  effects  with  ambi- 
tious studies  in  perspective,  are  sometimes  unwisely  attempted. 
Sectile  mosaic  seems  to  have  large  possibilities,  but  it  has 
never  amounted  to  anything  as  art. 

Tesselated  mosaic  is  made  up  of  little  squares   (Latin, 


24  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

tesserce,  dice)  set  in  cement.  Figures  and  background  alike 
are  made  by  arranging  squares  of  the  proper  color  in  lines 
and  masses  as  required.  Obviously,  with  squares  as  large  as 
common  dice,  and  lines  of  cement  plainly  visible,  no  very 
exact  representation  is  possible.  Yet,  strangely  enough,  it 
is  this  form  of  mosaic  which  has  risen  to  honor.  Nor  have 
the  numerous  attempts  to  file  sharp  corners  and  make  invisible 
joints  proved  satisfactory.  We  persist  in  liking  best  those 
mosaics  which  do  not  conceal  their  joints  or  attempt  too 
accurate  representation  of  figures  and  outlines.  The  reason 
for  this  universal  preference  is  an  excellent  subject  for  re- 
flection. 

A  favorite  compromise  between  these  two  forms  of  mosaic 
is  the  so-called  Cosmatin  work,  which  takes  its  name  from  the 
Cosmati  family  which  worked  at  it  for  several  generations. 
This  resembles  tesselated  mosaic  in  that  it  is  made  of  small 
pieces,  geometrical  in  shape,  but  not  all  are  squares.  There 
are  triangles,  diamonds,  rectangles,  and  even  pieces  of  curved 
outline.  These  are  used  to  make,  not  pictures  or  figures, 
but  borders  and  rich  geometrical  patterns,  which  in  turn 
are  set  into  marble  used  for  pulpits,  altar  screens  and  the  like 
thus  allying  the  work  to  sectile  mosaic.  Such  forms  serve  to 
suggest  the  possible  variations  of  the  art. 

The  Eg)q)tians  used  mosaic  for  jewelry,  but  never  dis- 
covered its  larger  uses.  The  Greeks  made  floors  of  selected 
pebbles,  making  borders  and  even  figures  by  arranging  colors 
appropriately.  This,  however,  was  but  the  merest  rudiment 
of  the  art.  To  the  Romans  we  owe  its  development  into  one 
of  the  great  arts  of  the  world.  They  used  it  for  floors,  though 
walls  and  even  ceilings  in  mosaic  occur.  Floor  mosaic  was 
necessarily  made  of  stone,  and  the  range  of  color  was  cor- 
respondingly limited.  Of  the  many  marbles  known  to  the 
Romans,  only  four  or  five  furnished  colors  sufficiently  dis- 
tinctive for  mosaic  use.  White  was,  of  course,  the  usual 
background,  though  black  was  occasionally  employed,  while 


How  Art  became  Christian  25 

giallo  anticOy  a  dull  yellow,  rosso  antico,  a  dull  red,  verde 
antico,  a  dark  green,  and  porphyry,  a  dark  purple,  completed 
his  list  of  colors.  None  of  these  colors  were  brilliant  or 
uniform.  It  is  plain  that  they  sufficed  for  borders,  geometri- 
cal patterns  and  the  like,  where  colors  are  arbitrary,  but  that 
they  were  quite  insufficient  for  pictorial  effect.  Yet,  strangely 
enough,  that  was  at  first  the  great  ambition  of  the  Roman 
mosaicist.  By  the  first  century  of  our  era,  the  most  elaborate 
pictorial  representations  were  attempted,  as  we  have  seen 
in  the  "Battle  of  Issus."  The  technique  of  the  art  is  already 
marvellously  perfect.  The  tesserae  are  very  small  and  closely 
fitted,  and  the  selection  of  colors  betrays  an  infinity  of  pains. 
But  even  so,  the  result  probably  bears  little  resemblance  to 
the  color  beauty  of  the  original. 

The  great  expense  and  meager  results  of  these  pictorial 
reproductions  probably  account  for  the  rapid  evolution  of 
mosaic  ideals.  Pompeii  itself  furnishes  an  example  of  the 
simpler  treatment,  in  the  well-known  dog  which  guards  the 
entrance  to  one  of  the  finer  houses.  In  the  vestibule,  which 
is  paved  with  small  squares  of  white  marble,  is  a  ferocious 
dog  chained  to  a  corner  of  the  vestibule,  and  accompanied 
by  the  warning  motto,  "  Cave  Canem,"  look  out  for  the  dog. 
This  characteristic  Roman  joke  is  represented  in  plain  black 
upon  a  white  ground.  It  is  essentially  a  silhouette,  but  the 
eyes,  the  teeth,  and  a  few  prominent  parts  are  outlined  in 
white  upon  the  flat  figure  of  the  dog.  It  is  probable  that  if 
the  owner  could  have  afforded  it,  he  would  have  had  his  dog 
represented  more  realistically,  rounding  him  up  into  a  mental 
hump  on  the  floor,  and  perhaps  surrounding  him  with  embar- 
rassing suggestions  of  depth.  His  choice  of  subject  prepares 
us  for  anything.  In  other  and  even  later  cases  precisely 
this  is  done.  A  good  example  is  the  representation  of  water 
fowl  in  the  sacristy  of  Santa  Maria  in  Trastevere.  The  work 
is  very  fine,  and  the  artist  shows  a  delicate  appreciation  of 
his  material  and  resources  in  suggesting  the  rounded  breasts 


26  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

of  his  ducks  by  curving  lines  instead  of  by  shading,  for  which 
his  limited  range  of  colors  gave  him  little  opportunity.  But 
the  rounder  his  birds  are,  the  harder  they  are  to  walk  on. 
He  still  cares  more  for  good  birds  than  for  a  good  floor. 

Ultimately,  however,  the  artist  worked  out  a  real  mosaic 
style  and  learned  to  prefer  it  without  regard  to  cost.  Bold 
outhne  figures  with  features,  limbs  and  modeling  set  off  simply 
by  lines,  are  the  final  outcome  of  Roman  pictorial  mosaic. 
Still  better,  in  many  of  the  mosaics,  picture  suggestion 
disappears  altogether,  and  conventional  designs,  fine  rug 
patterns,  take  their  place  as  appropriate  floor  decorations. 

As  the  Roman  mosaicist  slowly  changed  from  the  Greek 
pictorial  manner  to  a  style  more  congenial  to  his  art,  he  also 
slowly  modified  the  subject  in  a  direction  congenial  to  Roman 
taste.  The  Roman  had  little  place  in  his  art  for  the  finer 
human  sentiments.  He  was  fond  of  animals  and  suggestions 
of  material  indulgence.  Whole  halls  in  the  Vatican  sculpture 
gallery  are  filled  with  statues  of  dogs,  sheep,  goats  and  the 
like,  superb  in  workmanship  but  totally  without  higher  art 
significance.  The  mosaics  felt  the  influence  of  this  Roman 
taste  in  an  exceptional  degree.  Animals  of  every  sort, 
reptiles,  fishes,  fruit,  even  food  and  refuse,  are  the  objects 
of  the  artist's  skill.  In  the  later  days  of  the  empire  these 
subjects  divided  the  honors  with  the  borders  and  conventional 
patterns,  apparently  receiving  the  preference  whenever  means 
and  skill  permitted.  A  typical  example  is  the  so-called 
"mosaic  of  the  unswept  floor,"  in  the  Lateran  Museum  at 
Rome.  The  table  manners  of  the  Romans  were  different 
from  our  own.  They  reclined  at  meals,  and  fingers  took  the 
place  of  forks.  Refuse  was  thrown  upon  the  floor.  If  fruit 
was  served  upon  the  stem  or  meat  upon  the  bone,  stem,  peel 
and  bone  were  thrown  upon  the  floor.  If  eggs  were  served 
from  the  baking  dish,  the  empty  dish  was  set  upon  the  floor. 
If  water  or  wine  were  poured  from  a  pitcher,  the  pitcher  was 
set  upon  the  floor.     And  upon  the  floor  were  the  familiar 


How  Art  became  Christian  27 

household  pets,  not  merely  cats  and  dogs,  but  parrots,  doves, 
quails,  and  guinea  hens,  all  of  them  familiar  denizens  of  the 
ordinary  household.  The  picture  is  not  inviting  to  us,  but 
stone  floors  and  free  use  of  water  were  extenuating  circum- 
stances. To  the  Roman  this  litter  of  refuse  and  kitchen 
bric-a-brac  doubtless  came  to  have  a  homey  look,  suggestive 
of  enjoyments  to  which  he  was  peculiarly  sensible.  It  is 
highly  characteristic  of  Roman  art  that  we  find  this  litter 
of  the  dining-room  carefully  reproduced  in  the  mosaic  of  the 
dining-room  floor. 

This  art,  clever,  adaptable,  but  vulgar  and  materialistic, 
was  the  one  living  form  of  art  which  decadent  Rome  was 
able  to  put  at  the  disposal  of  the  new  faith.  It  will  therefore 
be  of  interest  to  trace  its  development  in  these  transitional 
days. 

Out  on  the  Via  Nomentana,  perhaps  a  mile  beyond  the  walls 
of  Rome,  is  the  little  church  of  Santa  Costanza,  built  to 
receive  the  tomb  of  Constantia,  the  daughter  of  Constantine. 
We  may  undoubtedly  assign  it  to  the  period  of  Constantine, 
that  is,  to  the  first  half  of  the  fourth  century.  Like  most  of 
the  early  tomb  churches,  it  is  round,  in  this  case  consisting 
of  a  round  central  part  resting  on  columns  and  surmounted 
by  a  dome,  and  an  encircling  aisle  covered  with  a  vault.  It 
was  probably  once  decorated  with  mosaics  throughout,  but 
only  the  mosaics  of  the  vaulted  aisle  remain.  These,  the 
first  mosaics  of  official  Christianity  (B  18),  deserve  the  closest 
study. 

First,  it  will  be  noticed  that  these  mosaics  are  not  beneath 
our  feet  but  over  our  head.  Fanciful  inferences  are  sug- 
gested but  hardly  borne  out  by  farther  observation.  The 
change  of  position  permitted  a  change  of  materials,  and  the 
change  has  already  been  made.  The  vitreous  gleam  from 
the  little  squares  shows  that  we  are  dealing  with  glass,  not 
marble.  This  change  from  floor  to  ceiling  and  from  marble 
to  glass  is  a  veritable  emancipation.     New  and  more  varied 


% 


How  Art  became  Christian  29 

colors,  a  more  dazzling  splendor,  a  more  exalted  theme,  all 
seem  assured.  But  the  artist  seems  not  to  know  that  he  is 
free.  He  has  glass  instead  of  marble,  but  instead  of  the 
brilliant  colors  thus  made  possible,  he  has  painfully  imitated 
the  dull  colors  of  his  familiar  marbles,  dull  green,  dull  yellow 
and  dull  purple.     White  is  still  the  background. 

If  we  study  the  design,  we  are  scarcely  more  edified.  The 
front  sections  of  the  vault  are  filled  with  the  familiar  con- 
ventional designs,  unfortunately  in  this  case  most  lean  and 
commonplace.  Scanty  suggestions  of  fish,  flesh  or  fowl 
seem  meaningless  unless  we  hazard  the  guess  that  the  fish 
frequently  met  with  is  the  well-known  Christian  symbol. 
On  either  side,  one  section  of  the  vault  is  devoted  to  a  vintage 
scene.  The  pictorial  elements,  the  wine-press,  the  cart 
loaded  with  grapes,  the  figures  picking  the  bunches,  are 
neither  beautiful  nor  significant.  The  suggestion  that  here 
is  an  allusion  to  communion  wine  is  most  unplausible.  All 
savors  of  the  banquet  rather  than  of  the  sanctuary.  Only 
the  vine,  which  winds  itself  up  into  feeble  decorative  scrolls, 
is  seriously  worth  remembering. 

All  these  impressions  are  enhanced  as  we  go  farther,  roimd 
to  where  once  stood  the  high  altar  and  the  sarcophagus  of 
the  saint.  Here  is  the  most  important  part  of  the  church ; 
here,  if  anywhere,  we  shall  find  the  new  spirit  and  the  symbols 
of  the  new  faith.  It  is  plain  at  a  glance  that  the  importance 
of  this  place  was  recognized  and  that  the  most  accomplished 
artist  was  here  employed.  His  workmanship  is  superb. 
More  than  the  others,  too,  he  has  discerned  the  possibilities 
of  his  new  material.  There  are  touches  of  dazzling  blue  and 
resplendent  gold  unseen  before.  Surely  here  we  may  expect 
to  find  the  new  art. 

Amazing  to  relate,  we  have  in  this  most  sacred  place,  and 
on  a  ceiling  at  that,  the  mosaic  of  the  unswept  floor.  Here 
are  drinking  horns  and  beautiful  water  pitchers  edged  with 
gold;    there  are  oranges  and  pomegranates  and  pine  cones 


30  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

upon  the  leafy  branch;  there  are  ducks  and  quails  and 
parrots  and  guinea  hens;  there  are  cucumbers  and  frying 
pans,  and  basins.  Superb  in  design  and  color,  but  strewn 
over  the  surface  in  disorder,  they  reveal  as  nothing  else  could 
do,  the  momentum  of  habit  and  ideal  which  no  change  in 
official  faith  could  immediately  overcome. 

So  far  we  have  found  no  Christian  art,  but  as  we  are  about 
to  leave,  we  notice  by  chance  two  tiny  niches  over  the  side 
entrances.  In  each  we  have  a  central  figure  that  we  hesi- 
tatingly identify  as  the  Christ,  while  on  either  side  stands 
another  figure  and  a  little  sentinel  box-like  thing  which  we 
learn  later  to  interpret  as  the  sign  of  Jerusalem  or  Bethlehem. 
We  can  scarce  believe  that  these  are  seriously  intended,  as 
we  compare  their  awkward  helplessness  with  the  splendid 
details  of  the  unswept  floor.  Critics  have  even  queried 
whether  they  are  not  to  be  attributed  to  a  later  restoration 
in  degenerate  times.  Such  queries  are  easily  set  at  rest  if 
we  notice  the  borders  of  pomegranates  and  grapes  which 
surround  them.  They  are  equal  to  the  best  work  in  the 
ceiling.  Only  the  Saviour  and  the  Saints  are  abysmal 
failures.  The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  artist  is  skilled 
in  the  representation  of  the  stock,  conventional  themes. 
His  copybooks  and  his  head  are  full  of  birds  and  fruits  and 
like  sordid  commonplaces  of  uninspired  Roman  art.  He  has 
skill,  but  neither  imagination  nor  inspired  ideals.  Ask  of 
him  the  familiar,  and  his  art  is  skillful,  automatic;  ask  the 
new,  above  all,  the  higher,  the  spiritual,  and  he  is  helpless 
in  the  extreme.  A  sorry  beginning,  this,  of  Christian  art, 
but  not  unlike  the  beginning  which  men  were  making  of  a 
Christian  world. 

But  if  the  beginning  was  feeble,  progress  was  rapid.  Return- 
ing along  the  beautiful  Via  Nomentana,  with  its  villas  and 
its  matchless  views  across  the  Campagna,  let  us  pay  a  brief 
visit  to  Santa  Pudenziana,  famed  to  be  the  oldest  church 
in  Rome,  a  modification,  indeed,  of  that  **  house  of  Pudens," 


How  Art  became  Christian  31 

to  which  Paul  refers  in  his  epistle.  Whether  this  identity 
be  accepted  or  not,  its  antiquity  is  certain.  And  here,  in 
this  same  fourth  century,  the  half  dome  of  the  shallow  apse 
was  decorated  with  a  mosaic  (B  19)  so  new,  so  magnificent,  that 
it  is  diflficult  to  believe  that  scarce  fifty  years  have  passed 
since  the  helpless  beginnings  in  Santa  Costanza.  All  that 
was  good  in  the  earUer  work,  the  birds,  the  fruits,  the  con- 
ventional patterns,  have  been  abandoned.  They  are  mean- 
ingless in  the  new  art.  On  the  other  hand,  the  helpless  figures 
and  symbols  of  our  timid  Christian  beginnings  have  been 
enormously  expanded  and  enriched.  In  the  center  sits  the 
Christ,  a  magnificent,  kingly  figure,  splendid  in  vestments 
of  crimson  and  gold.  On  either  side  sit  the  apostles,  real 
men  now,  easy  in  posture  and  of  marked  individuality,  men 
to  whom  the  names  that  they  have  made  famous  might 
plausibly  be  attached.  Their  draperies  are  naturalistic,  and 
remind  us  of  the  best  Greek  sculpture.  Back  of  them  is  a 
curving  arcade,  a  fine  decorative  feature,  with  bronze  tiles 
edged  with  gold,  reminiscent  of  the  gilded  bronze  tiles  that 
decorated  the  Pantheon  and  other  Roman  buildings  in  that 
day.  Behind  all  rises  the  cross,  rich  with  jewels  in  Byzan- 
tine manner,  and  on  either  side,  the  sacred  cities,  Jerusalem 
and  Bethlehem,  not  symbols  now,  but  real  cities,  with  nearer 
and  remoter  buildings  in  unmistakable  perspective.  Above 
are  bluish  gray  clouds  and  the  signs  of  the  four  Evangelists 
in  the  heavens. 

Two  points  need  to  be  especially  noted  in  this  remarkable 
picture.  First,  it  is  a  picture,  not  a  flat  decoration.  Three 
centuries  or  more  ago  the  mosaicist  had  begun  the  copying 
of  pictures  in  mosaic.  He  had  gradually  abandoned  the 
attempt,  partly,  no  doubt,  because  he  found  it  expensive 
and  difficult,-but  partly,  we  may  believe,  because  he  felt  that 
a  picture,  with  its  perspective  and  modeling,  was  inappro- 
priate for  a  floor,  and  to  some  extent  also  for  a  wall,  especially 
when  the  wall  had  dignity  and  significance.     In  three  cen- 


How  Art  became  Christian  33 

turies  of  evolution,  picture  had  slowly  given  way  to  flat 
decoration,  either  figures  in  outline  and  silhouette,  or  con- 
ventional borders,  and  patterns.  Now,  picture  has  come 
back.  We  again  have  perspective  and  carefully  modeled 
faces,  figures,  draperies.  More  than  that,  we  have  a  very 
realistic  picture,  with  emphasis  laid  upon  individuality  in 
the  various  persons,  upon  real  cities,  clouds,  and  thrones. 
The  artist  has  either  forgotten,  or  he  has  boldly  rejected 
the  results  of  three  centuries  of  experience.  Why  this 
change  ? 

It  is  the  natural  result  of  the  adoption  of  the  new  religion. 
It  is  not  that  this  religion  is  better  or  higher,  though  this  was 
undoubtedly  true.  This  alone  would  not  make  our  mosaics 
pictorial  and  realistic  again.  It  is  simply  that  this  religion 
is  new,  and  its  stories  and  personalities  have,  for  a  time,  the 
interest  of  novelty.  We  can  imagine  the  sudden  fashionable- 
ness  of  these  Bible  stories,  the  headlong  haste  of  the  would- 
be-in-its  to  learn  the  names  of  the  Christian  w^orthies  and  the 
story  of  their  lives.  It  is  doubtful  whether  morals  and 
spirituality  at  onc6  received  their  due.  It  is  sufficient  for 
our  purpose  to  note  that  a  new  theme  acquired  vogue,  became, 
indeed,  a  fad  for  the  brief  period  of  transition.  And  the 
nature  of  this  fad,  having  to  do  with  persons  and  incidents, 
at  once  puts  emphasis  upon  personality  and  natural  environ- 
ment, and  art  is  stimulated  to  unprecedented  progress  in 
this  direction.  No  one  has  ever  thought  of  ranking  the  Age 
of  Constantine  along  with  the  Age  of  Pericles  or  the  Age  of 
Lorenzo,  as  a  creative  period  in  art.  In  general  it  was  a 
period  of  extreme  decadence.  Yet  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  an  example  in  either  of  those  famous  ages  in  which 
progress  was  more  conspicuous  than  in  the  interval  between 
Santa  Costanza  and  Santa  Pudenziana.  To  those  to  whom 
realism  and  pictorial  effect  is  the  criterion  of  excellence,  this 
mosaic  not  unfrequently  appeals  as  the  greatest  that  has 
come  down  to  us. 


34  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

But  it  is  impossible  to  look  upon  it  without  certain  mis- 
givings. The  gray  clouds  are  not  beautiful,  and  the  per- 
spective dulls  our  perception  of  the  shape  of  the  apse.  Com- 
pare it  in  reproduction  with  the  half  dome  of  Santa  Maria 
in  Trastevere  (B  3  5) .  How  vague  and  hesitating  is  our  percep- 
tion of  shape  and  roundness  in  the  one  case,  and  how  definite 
.in  the  other  !  The  contrast  in  color  is  even  more  to  its  dis- 
advantage. The  artist  seems  to  feel  this.  He  knows  that 
clouds  and  city  backgrounds  must  be  dull  and  neutral,  but 
he  regrets  it,  and  strains  a  point  to  get  in  as  much  gold  and 
.bright  color  as  possible.  The  tiles  are  gilded;  the  women 
are  clad  in  cloth  of  gold,  the  Christ  in  gold  and  crimson ; 
the  cross  glitters  with  gems.  What  a  pity  that  nature  is  not 
brighter  hued  if  she  is  to  serve  to  make  beautiful  the  temple 
of  the  Lord !  What  artist  devoted  to  nature  and  truth  has 
not  felt  this?  Above  all  things,  when  your  art  offers  you 
not  only  color,  but  the  sheen  and  splendor  of  gold,  and  the 
diamond  sparkle  of  glass  in  cleavage,  how  irresistible  the 
temptation  !  How  irksome  the  thrall  of  sober-hued  nature ! 
Our  artist  feels  the  temptation  and  the  thrall. 

Let  us  wander  into  the  next  century,  only  a  few  steps  away, 
in  the  glorious  church  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  by  far  the 
most  beautiful  church  in  Rome.  We  will  not  notice  for  the 
moment  the  splendid  colonnades,  nor  the  rich  mosaic  floor, 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  nor  yet  the  great  mosaics 
in  the  tribune,  to  which  we  must  later  return.  Our  immediate 
interest  is  in  the  mosaic  pictures  beneath  the  clerestory 
windows.  They  are  comparatively  small  and  the  artist  has 
made  the  mistake  of  putting  in  too  many  figures  and  in  too 
small  a  scale,  which  unduly  disparages  his  work,  but  we  will 
make  allowance  for  this.  The  interesting  thing  is  to  note 
the  change  of  style.  The  story- telling  fad  is  still  on,  and  our 
artist  is  unusually  ambitious,  but  he  has  yielded  to  tempta- 
tion. The  dull  toned  backgrounds  are  gone,  and  fiat  back- 
grounds of  gold  take  their  place.    The  figures  are  modeled 


36  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

into  the  round,  but  beyond  this,  perspective  is  sacrificed. 
The  inevitable  compromise  is  being  made. 

It  is  not  so  very  far  to  the  Baptistery  of  St.  John  in  the 
Lateran,  the  venerable  edifice  in  which  Constantine  was  bap- 
tized, where  we  again  resume  our  study  with  a  mosaic  of  the 
fifth  century,  the  ceiling  of  the  little  Oratory  of  St.  John. 
Whether  it  is  later  in  the  century  than  the  pictures  we  were 
just  studying,  we  cannot  say.  It  certainly  is  farther  removed 
from  the  pictorial  reahsm  of  Santa  Pudenziana.  For  here  is 
no  picture  at  all,  only  a  beautiful  gold  covered  surface  slightly 
diversified  by  figures  and  designs.  The  dishes  of  fruit, 
flanked  by  parrots,  doves,  ducks  and  quails,  remind  us  of  the 
older  Roman  taste,  and  are  undoubtedly  lineal  descendants 
of  the  earlier  tradition,  though  here  arranged  in  attractive 
symmetry.  They  are  pleasingly  meaningless.  Only  the 
lamb  in  the  center  with  the  halo  round  its  head  suggests 
that  this  Roman  of  the  old  school  found  in  the  verse:  "Be- 
hold the  Lamb  of  God  that  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world," 
a  congenial  point  of  contact  with  the  new  faith. 

But  this  mosaic  gives  us  something  new,  a  thing  not  un- 
known in  the  imperial  mosaics,  but  unnoticed  as  yet  in  our 
studies.  The  gold  covered  ceiling  is  divided,  according  to 
the  sections  of  the  vaulting,  by  rich  borders  in  olive  brown, 
figured  and  festooned  with  flowers. 

The  important  thing  is  the  place  of  these  borders.  First, 
they  run  around  the  sides,  following  the  junction  of  the 
ceiling  with  the  side  walls.  Then  they  run  diagonally  from 
corner  to  corner,  following  the  line  of  junction  of  the  vaults, 
where  in  Gothic  architecture  we  should  find  ribs  or  groins 
giving  place  in  the  center  to  a  small  circle  where  we  should 
expect  to  find  the  keystone  or  boss.  All  this  is  so  simple  and 
so  appropriate  that  we  do  not  at  first  think  of  it  as  important, 
but  it  will  be  easiest  to  recognize  in  this  simple  example  a 
great  principle  which  from  this  time  forth  is  going  to  control 
the  farther  development  of   the   mosaics.     We  may  call 


How  Art  became  Christian  37 

this  principle  Interpretation  of  Structure.  We  shall 
find  our  most  familiar  illustration  of  this  in  the  great 
Gothic  churches  of  the  North.  The  ribs  or  groins  of  the 
vaulting  converge  to  points  on  the  walls  exactly  over  the 
pillars  in  the  aisles.  It  would  be  easy  to  support  the  burden 
of  this  vaulted  ceiling  by  round  pillars  and  plain  wall,  and 
this  at  first  they  did.  But  they  soon  learned  to  use  a  clus- 
tered pier  instead,  each  groin  or  rib  of  the  ceiling  being 
carried  clear  down  to  the  floor  as  a  separate  shaft  or  rib,  a 
number  of  these  shafts  being  then  grouped  together  to  form 
a  clustered  pier.  The  advantage  of  this  is  not  structural, 
for  the  round  pillar  would  do  just  as  well.  It  is  purely  inter- 
pretive. Each  separate  weight  in  the  ceiling  having  its  own 
supporting  shaft,  we  have  at  once  the  feeling  that  the  artist 
has  thought  about  each  and  separately  provided  for  its 
support.  All  good  architecture  is  built  with  a  regard  for 
this  need  of  interpretation,  this  necessity  of  satisfying  the 
mind  that  all  requirements  of  good  structure  have  been 
properly  met. 

When  the  architect  turned  over  the  problem  of  decoration 
to  the  mosaicist,  this  same  need  was  certain  to  be  felt.  In 
our  little  oratory  the  problem  was  of  the  simplest,  and  was 
solved  in  the  simplest  way,  but  in  the  nearby  portico  of  San 
Venanzio,  now  a  chapel  of  this  same  Baptistery,  it  is  begin- 
ning to  affect  mosaic  in  quite  a  different  way.  The  beautiful 
half  dome  here  has  no  thought  of  picture.  It  is  covered 
with  splendid  blue,  which  scintillates  from  the  broken 
surfaces  of  the  tesserae,  while  over  this  dark  blue  surface  is 
spread  a  vine-Uke  scroll  in  pale  shaded  green,  edged  with 
gold.  In  spite  of  great  changes,  it  reminds  us  a  little  of  the 
scroll-like  grape-vine  back  in  Santa  Costanza.  But  there 
is  this  important  difference,  that  here  the  scrolls  are  ar- 
ranged in  regular  perpendicular  lines,  tapering  from  the  base 
of  the -dome  upward  toward  the  center  where  they  all  meet. 
From  this  time  on,  all  mosaic  scrolls  are  arranged  in  this  way. 


38  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

The  suggestion  of  supporting  power  in  a  scroll  like  this  is 
feeble  enough,  but  so  far  as  it  suggests  direction  at  all,  it  is 
important  that  this  direction  should  be  in  the  line  of  the 
perpendicular,  that  line  which  must  ever  be  fundamental  in 
architecture.  It  is  needless  to  add  that  perspective  has 
been  wholly  dropped,  and  the  artist  has  forgotten  even  the 
suggestion  of  picture.     So  much  in  the  sixth  century. 

But  the  famous  old  Baptistery  has  yet  another  contribu- 
tion to  make  to  our  subject,  this  time  a  mosaic  of  the  seventh 
century  in  the  adjacent  oratory  of  San  Venanzio,  a  contribu- 
tion reinforced  by  the  fine  seventh  century  mosaic  of  Saint 
Agnes  without  the  Walls  (B  31).  Both  these  mosaics  are  of 
the  Byzantine  style  which  the  brief  control  of  the  Eastern  Em- 
pire over  distracted  Italy  now  brought  into  fashion  at  Rome. 
Ravenna,  the  capital  of  the  Greek  Emperor's  legate,  not 
unnaturally  offers  numerous  examples,  such  as  Justinian  and 
his  courtiers,  and  Theodora  and  her  ladies,  and  above  all, 
the  splendid  procession  of  maidens  from  Sant'  Apollinare 
Nuovo,  all  of  them  naturally  of  somewhat  earlier  date  than 
the  Roman  examples.  The  transition  seems  abrupt  as  we 
go  from  our  scroll  covered  blue  to  these  gold  backgrounds 
with  their  stiff,  immovable  figures.  Degenerate  pictures, 
we  call  them,  —  the  critics  call  them,  almost  without  a  dis- 
senting voice.  Yes,  as  pictures,  they  are  certainly  degener- 
ate. But  when  we  dismiss  them  with  this  easy  conclusion 
acre  we  not  overlooking  something?  In  fact,  the  eastern 
artists,  their  background  of  tradition  being  Greek  art  rather 
than  Roman,  their  traditional  subjects  gods  and  men,  rather 
than  grape-vines  and  ducks,  did  not  so  easily  lapse  into 
scrolls  as  their  Roman  contemporaries,  but  struggled  still 
with  saints  and  prophets.  Yet  as  interest  in  personality  and 
story  waned,  as  color  and  gold  banished  perspective,  and  the 
importunities  of  nature  were  definitely  silenced,  the  need  of 
interpreting  structure  again  made  itself  felt.  The  figures  them- 
selves must  do  duty  now  in  giving  direction  to  eye  and  thought. 


40  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Saint  and  prophet  had  entered  the  church  of  old,  conscious  only 
of  their  mission  to  men,  human  in  act,  in  posture,  in  impulse, 
knowing  no  law  but  the  law  of  life.  Slowly  they  became  con- 
scious of  the  great  lines  and  symmetries  about  them.  The  vast 
colonnades  and  the  motionless  pillars  fill  the  church  as  with  a 
solemn  music  which  slowly  enwraps  the  mind  till  individual 
utterance  is  hushed  and  alien  impulse  is  wooed  into  willing 
conformity.  Ease  yields  to  dignity,  and  spontaneity  is 
insensibly  surrendered  to  symmetry  and  repose.  Fluttering 
draperies  learn  to  compose  themselves  in  straight  and  un- 
broken lines,  arms  are  folded  or  hang  motionless,  and  solemn 
faces  look  out  upon  us  with  the  calm  that  reminds  us  of  the 
eternal  things.  Life  has  lost  its  usual  prerogatives,  —  nay, 
holds  them  in  abeyance,  and  in  willing  sympathy,  accepts 
instead  the  solemn  majesty  of  the  church.  The  individual 
withers  and  the  church  is  more  and  more. 

We  may  freely  admit  that  the  artist  was  not  conscious  of 
the  great  principle  to  which  he  was  conforming.  No  doubt, 
too,  lack  of  skill  in  pictorial  presentation,  had  much  to  do 
with  it.  It  is  probable  enough  that  he  would  have  spoiled 
his  mosaics  if  he  had  been  able  to  dp  so.  Yet  if  we  had 
criticised  his  figures  and  exhorted  him  to  greater  lifelikeness, 
it  is  more  than  probable  that  he  would  have  conceded  the 
justice  of  the  criticism,  and  yet  would  have  added :  "  Some- 
how, I  like  them  better  this  way."  lii  so  doing  he  would  but 
have  voiced  the  mute  appeal  of  his  great  building  for  decora- 
tions in  harmony  with  its  own  nature,  the  underlying  reason 
for  all  decorative  conventions  in  art. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  the  suggestiveness  of  these  decora- 
tive figures  in  mosaics.  The  procession  of  maidens  in  Sant' 
Apollinare  is  ranged  above  a  colonnade  whose  stately  intervals 
and  symmetry  it  echoes  and  emphasizes.  Especially  sig- 
nificant is  the  half  dome  of  Saint  Agnes.  Rich  borders 
surround  it  above,  below,  within,  without,  thus  recognizing 
its  character.    The  space  thus  framed  by  these  borders  is 


How  Art  became  Christian  41 

then  laid  off  in  horizontal  zones  and  covered  with  mosaic 
ground,  pale  green  below,  for  turf,  then  a  broad  band  of  gold 
as  background  for  the  figures,  then  small  bands  of  varying 
tints  above,  filling  out  the  half  dome.  These  horizontal 
bands  once  laid  off,  the  figures  are  arranged  perpendicular 
to  the  base,  all  radiating  from  the  upper  center  of  the  dome. 
Straight  scarfs  and  folds  of  drapery  emphasize  this  straight- 
ness  and  radial  direction.  Draw  a  circle  and  imagine  it  as 
the  representation  of  a  solid  object.  It  can  only  be  a  disk. 
Now  draw  foreshortened  curves  from  top  to  bottom  and 
others  from  side  to  side,  and  it  will  no  longer  suggest  a  disk 
but  a  sphere.  Witness  the  usual  map  of  the  hemisphere. 
Our  artists  have  adopted  the  familiar  principle  of  parallels 
of  latitude  and  meridian  lines  in  the  arrangement  of  back- 
ground and  figures,  and  as  a  result,  their  half  dome,  instead 
of  being  obscured  as  by  the  picture  of  Santa  Pudenziana,  is 
positively  emphasized.  Compare  the  splendid  half  dome 
of  Santa  Maria  in  Trastevere,  decorated  on  this  principle. 

We  now  have  all  the  important  factors  in  the  great  mosaics 
of  the  middle  ages.  The  mosaicists  had  permanently  aban- 
doned picture,  relying  for  their  effect  upon  color  splendor  and 
upon  decorative  arrangement.  Their  decorations  remind  us 
little  of  life,  but  life  is  not  the  only  thing  in  art.  On  the 
other  hand,  they  are  the  most  interpretive  of  all  decorations. 

The  disasters  which  fell  ever  more  heavily  upon  Italy 
brought  art  to  lower  and  lower  humiliation.  Few  things 
could  be  more  helpless  than  the  mosaics  of  San  Marco  in 
Rome,  or  Santa  Prassede,  both  of  the  ninth  century.  After 
that,  the  mosaics  cease  altogether  for  a  couple  of  centuries, 
only  to  revive,  first  in  Sicily,  under  the  revivifying  influence 
of  those  wonderful  Norman  freebooters  who  in  the  eleventh 
century  were  writing  their  names  across  the  bewildering 
palimpsest  of  Sicilian  civilization,  and  finally  in  the  twelfth 
century  in  Rome,  where  the  art  has  left  some  splendid  mem- 
orials of  its  glorious  period.     Such  are  San  Clemente  in  whose 


42  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

lustrous  scrolls  we  recognize  our  mosaic  of  six  centuries 
before  in  the  great  Baptistery.  Saint  John  in  the  Lateran 
has  a  half  dome  decorated  on  the  same  principle  as  Saint 
Agnes,  though  the  radial  figures  and  their  perpendicular 
names  are  a  little  lost  in  the  vast  expanse.  In  the  great 
half  dome  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  we  have  the  richest 
borders  and  the  most  splendid  details  of  rosette  and  scroll 
and  peacock  plumage  ever  conceived  in  art,  but  the  artist 
has  made  the  mistake  of  making  his  detailed  work  too  fine, 
so  that  it  is  lost  to  the  distant  view,  and  still  more  serious, 
he  has  tried  to  combine  scrolls  and  radial  figures  and  center 
medallion  in  quite  an  impossible  way.  The  medallion  is 
cut  out  first,  then  the  figures  have  next  choice,  and  lastly, 
the  accommodating  vine  is  twined  over  the  left-over  space  or 
scrap.  No  design  is  good  which  contains  scrap,  that  is, 
space  not  beautiful  or  planned  in  itself,  but  merely  left  over 
from  the  cutting  out  of  something  else. 

In  Santa  Maria  in  Trastevere  the  mediaeval  ideal  seems 
fully  attained.  The  borders,  seen  at  close  range  do  not 
compare  with  those  in  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  but  they 
"carry"  to  the  very  end  of  the  church.  The  great  dome, 
splendid  with  its  color,  is  dominated  by  colossal  radial 
figures  whose  unapologized  straightness  is  emphasized  by 
every  means  in  the  artist's  power.  The  face  wall  on  either 
side  the  tribune  glows  with  gold,  framed  with  rich  borders 
and  appropriate  figure  decoration.  Underneath  this  half 
dome,  like  a  splendid  foundation,  runs  a  band  of  purplish 
brown  on  which  appear  in  linked  regularity,  like  a  bracelet 
on  a  woman's  arm,  the  thirteen  sheep  which  represent  Christ 
and  the  apostles.  And  below  all  this  still,  a  broad  band  or 
ribbon  of  bordered  mosaic  picture,  stretching  around  to  the 
face  walls  on  either  side.  The  whole  seen  by  mellow  after- 
noon light  makes  the  most  splendid  church  wall  ever  gazed 
upon  by  man. 

But  we  have  dropped  a  word  above  which  is  disturbingly 


How  Art  became  Christian  43 

suggestive.  We  spoke  of  the  broad  lower  band  of  mosaic 
picture.  If  we  examine  one  of  these  sections,  the  Nativity, 
the  word  is  seen  to  be  no  accident.  Symmetries  are  dis- 
regarded, the  angels  even  refusing  to  adjust  their  wings  in  the 
usual  accommodating  manner.  And  despite  the  gold  back- 
ground there  is  again  a  vague  hint  of  perspective  unknown 
in  the  arch  above.  Other  sections  betray  the  same  tendency 
toward  depth,  spontaneity,  life,  though  their  achievements 
in  this  direction  are  feeble  enough.  What  is  disturbing  the 
perfect  equilibrium  of  the  mediaeval  ideal  ? 

Our  riddle  is  solved  when  we  learn  that  our  twelfth  century 
mosaic  received  this  final  addition  in  the  thirteenth  century. 
And  then  we  recall  that  in  this  century  were  bom  Dante, 
first  of  the  moderns,  Niccolo  Pisano  and  Cimabue,  creators 
of  modern  sculpture  and  painting,  not  to  mention  Bacon  and 
others  who  awoke  with  the  dawn  of  modern  thought.  The 
Renaissance  is  here.  Life  is  again  the  theme,  and  the  art 
which  is  its  interpreter  chafes  against  the  symmetries  and 
the  gold  and  jeweled  splendors  so  foreign  to  its  nature.  Soon 
the  demand  will  be  for  something  more  facile  and  more  docile 
to  the  artist's  will.  Cimabue,  beginning  as  a  mosaicist,  ends 
as  a  painter.     The  doom  of  the  great  mosaics  is  sealed. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  BURSTING  OF  THE  BONDS 

We  have  seen  that  during  the  latter  days  of  the  thirteenth 
century  the  angel  of  the  Renaissance  troubled  the  quiet  waters 
of  mediaeval  art.  The  change  was  slight  in  outward  effect, 
but  in  principle  it  was  revolutionary,  and  marked  the  dawn 
of  a  new  era,  the  full  significance  of  which  we  were  to  learn 
later.  Fate  willed,  however,  that  Rome  should  have  little 
part  in  this  new  era.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  from 
the  time  of  Dante  to  the  time  of  Lorenzo,  Rome  did  almost 
nothing  in  art.  To  her  belonged,  in  theory  at  least,  the 
earth  and  the  fulness  thereof.  Into  her  coffers  flowed  the 
world's  tribute.  But.  sorry  days  were  at  hand,  days  of  the 
deepest  humiliation  that  she  had  known  since  the  time  of 
the  Goths.  The  empire  that  still  called  itself  Roman  knew 
nothing  of  Rome,  save  to  dread  and  humiliate  her,  and  that 
new  power  which  had  displaced  the  shattered  authority  of  the 
emperor  seemed  tottering  to  its  fall.  For  seventy  years  the 
pope  was  an  exile,  and  during  this  period,  Rome,  robbed  of 
both  empire  and  pope,  sank  into  utter  stagnation.  With  the 
return  of  the  popes,  prosperity  did  not  immediately  return. 
The  long  prostration  had  become  chronic,  and  the  days  when 
Italy  was  voicing  her  supreme  message  to  the  world  were 
lost  to  Rome. 

It  was  in  Florence  that  the  new  light  dawned.  Rivals 
briefly  disputed  her  supremacy,  but  before  the  first  generation 
of  the  new  art  had  passed,  that  supremacy  was  established, 
never  again  to  be  challenged  by  any  Italian  city. 

It  is  difficult  fully  to  account  for  this  supremacy.    In  a 

44 


The  Bursting  of  the  Bonds  45 

general  way  we  must  associate  it  with  the  artisanship  which 
about  this  time  developed  so  amazingly  in  Florence  as  in 
other  Italian  cities.  Knowing  nothing  of  the  pampering  of 
tribute-fed  Rome,  her  life  was  as  naturally  creative  as  Rome's 
was  parasitic.  Hand  artisanship,  too,  has  always  been  the 
prompter  of  the  brain  and  the  educator  of  taste.  It  is 
certainly  not  an  accident  that  the  two  busiest  centers  of  hand 
artisanship  the  world  ever  knew,  Athens  and  Florence,  have 
been  its  leaders  in  creative  art,  while  stall-fed  capitals  like 
Rome  and  Washington  are  powerless  to  create  the  art  which 
they  are  privileged  to  buy. 

We  have  traced  in  the  mosaics  the  development  of  art 
through  the  long  period  of  subsidence  which  intervenes  like 
a  great  gulf  between  the  art  of  the  Greeks  and  that  of  the 
Renaissance.  The  mosaics  are  at  once  the  most  distinctive 
and  the  best  preserved  of  the  mediaeval  arts.  Painting 
existed,  however,  and  despite  its  more  perishable  character, 
is  preserved  to  us  in  numerous  examples.  For  the  most  part, 
painting  served  the  minor  purposes  of  church  decoration.  It 
furnished  the  altarpieces,  that  is,  the  pictures  of  saints  and 
of  episodes  from  their  lives,  which  formed  the  backing  or 
decoration  of  altars  erected  to  them.  While  these  altarpieces 
were  not  wall  decorations,  and  so  were  not  subject  to  quite 
the  same  requirements  as  the  mosaics,  the  tendency  was  much 
the  same.  It  was  important  to  catch  the  eye  and  lead  it  to 
the  all-important  spot,  and  so  rich  color  on  a  gold  background 
was  much  prized.  Even  in  a  later  day,  when  naturalism 
had  made  deep  inroads  upon  decorative  color,  it  was  the 
custom  to  stipulate,  in  contracts  for  church  painting,  that  a 
certain  proportion  of  the  space  should  be  covered  with  ultra- 
marine blue,  that  expensive  and  dearly  beloved  color.  What 
a  light  that  throws  upon  the  relative  importance  attached 
to  color  and  to  naturalness  in  this  early  art ! 

These  altars,  too,  were  nearly  always  placed  in  small  niches 
or  chapels  surrounded  with  impressively  symmetrical  archi- 


46  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

tecture.  Pillared  aisle  and  sheltering  arch  enclosed  with 
impressive  symmetry  the  altar  and  its  decoration,  which 
must  needs  be  symmetrical  in  its  turn.  Simple  mechanical 
features  increased  these  exactions.  The  picture  must  needs 
be  protected  when  not  specially  exhibited  to  the  faithful, 
and  for  this  purpose  doors  were  used,  which,  when  opened, 
must  needs  be  sightly,  that  is,  decorative  in  their  turn. 
Hence  arose  the  three-fold  picture,  or  triptych,  a  larger 
central  picture  between  two  smaller  ones,  which  must  needs 
match  each  other,  and,  in  turn,  laid  so  much  the  more  em- 
phasis upon  symmetry  in  the  central  part.  After  doors 
ceased  to  be  used,  the  painting  of  these  three-fold  pictures 
with  superb  architectural  frames  continued,  and  even  after 
the  compartment  frame  was  abandoned,  the  artists  continued 
for  generations  to  think  out  their  picture  in  three  parts,  and 
the  perfect  bilateral  syrfimetry  of  the  early  altarpieces  long 
seemed  to  them  a  fundamental  law  of  art.  The  Madonna 
and  her  throne  occupy  the  exact  center  of  the  picture,  and 
the  angels  or  saints  on  either  side  are  exact  mates,  man  for 
man,  woman  for  woman,  all,  even  to  the  bowing  of  the  head 
and  the  direction  of  the  eye. 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  this  symmetry  was  desired,  but  equally 
easy  to  see  that  it  was  very  unnatural.  Living  beings  do  not 
spontaneously  arrange  themselves  in  this  symmetrical 
manner,  and  if  we  devote  ourselves  seriously  to  the  represen- 
tation of  life,  one  of  the  first  things  we  shall  seek  is  the  freedom 
and  spontaneity  which  is  its  most  obvious  characteristic. 
Yet  art  can  never  quite  surrender  its  demand  for  symmetry 
or  regularity  of  a  certain  kind.  Take  the  altarpiece  down 
from  the  altar,  out  from  under  its  Gothic  canopy,  and  away 
from  its  pillared  aisles,  simplify  the  frame  until  it  becomes  a 
commonplace,  and  even  so  you  do  not  quite  destroy  the 
symmetry  of  its  setting.  The  simplest  of  picture  frames, 
even  the  square  card  of  the  photographer,  is  still  symmetrical 
and  dictates  a  certain  symmetry  in  the  picture  itself.     The 


The  Bursting  of  the  Bonds  47 

harmonies  of  art  are  not  inevitable  and  predetermined. 
They  are  wrought  out  under  the  pressure  of  conflicting  forces, 
and  are  necessarily  of  the  nature  of  a  compromise.  The 
mediaeval  art  yielded  fully  to  the  demand  for  regularity,  and 
perfect  bilateral  symmetry  of  the  mosaics  and  the  altar- 
pieces  was  the  result.  Some  of  the  later  realists  have  utterly 
revolted  against  regularity,  as  Andrea  del  Sarto  in  his  Visit 
of  the  Magi,  with  the  result  that  their  art  becomes  careless 
and  undignified.  Continually,  the  battle  went  on,  with 
advantage  now  to  one  principle,  now  to  the  other.  Not 
till  near  the  culmination  of  the  Renaissance  was  a  satisfactory 
compromise  effected  between  symmetry  and  lawlessness. 
This  compromise  we  may  call  balance. 

We  have  all  seen  a  pair  of  apothecary's  scales.  Two 
identical  pans  hang  from  the  ends  of  the  suspended  beam, 
the  one  for  the  commodity,  the  other  for  the  weights.  Each 
pan  is  exactly  like  the  other.  This  is  sjmimetry,  the  principle 
on  v/hich  the  old  altarpieces  were  constructed.  And  we  have 
seen  a  steelyard.  Here  we  have  one  pan  suspended  from  the 
short  end  of  a  beam,  while  on  the  other  and  long  end  slides  a 
weight  which  may  be  adjusted  to  offset  the  pan.  This  is  a 
balance,  the  principle  governing  the  construction  of  the  newer 
pictures.  Such  a  picture  is  Titian's  Madonna  of  the  Pesaro 
Family  in  which  the  Madonna  herself  is  balanced  by  a  flag, 
not  in  the  least  like  the  Madonna,  but  a  perfectly  satisfactory 
pictorial  equivalent.  Since  that  picture  was  painted  art 
has  never  returned  to  the  principle  of  rigid  bilateral  sym- 
metry. We  must  of  course  be  on  our  guard  against  taking 
such  an  analogy  too  seriously.  A  steelyard  would  not  make 
a  good  composition  for  a  picture,  but  it  suggests  the  principle 
on  which  all  good  pictures  must  be  composed.  It  is  the 
principle  of  pictorial  equivalence  as  contrasted  with  the 
principle  of  complete  identity.  The  new  principle  is  far 
more  difficult,  but  far  better  suited  to  the  needs  of  life.  ^ 

In  defining  our  terms,  we  have  trespassed  far  beyond  the 


48  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

limits  of  our  present  subject.  It  is  in  order  now  to  note 
that  the  mediaeval  art  is  almost  always  based  on  the  principle 
of  symmetry,  while  the  art  of  the  Renaissance,  which  we  are 
now  approaching,  is  based  on  the  principle  of  balance.  Of 
course  the  new  art  does  not  at  once  discover  and  master  this 
difficult  principle.  At  first  we  note  only  a  restiveness  under 
the  old  restraints,  a  revolt,  sometimes  very  half-hearted, 
against  symmetry,  and  a  great  deal  of  confusion  and  disorder, 
from  which  art  again  recoiled,  returning  to  the  old-time 
symmetry,  with  which,  however,  it  could  not  remain  content. 
Meanwhile  it  was,  of  course,  struggling  with  other  problems 
of  sentiment  and  interpretation  which  complicated  the 
problem  of  arrangement  and  frequently  overshadowed  it. 

It  may  be  well  farther  to  recall  that  decoration,  that  is, 
the  adaptation  or  subordination  of  art  to  something  else, 
say  architecture,  always  tends  toward  symmetry  rather 
than  mere  balance.  Pillars  and  arches  are  almost  always 
arranged  in  impressive  symmetry,  and  paintings  placed  within 
them  harmonize  best  when  absolutely  symmetrical.  Even 
an  elaborate  Gothic  frame  on  a  picture  has  much  the  same 
compelling  influence  toward  symmetry.  The  old  painting 
could  therefore  give  a  very  good  account  of  itself,  and  could 
interpose  a  very  stout  resistance  to  the  freedom  and  seeming 
lawlessness  which,  under  the  pulsings  of  new  life,  art  was 
striving  to  achieve. 

In  the  Accademia  of  Florence  hangs  a  picture  attributed  to 
Cimabue  (B  49)  which  typifies  the  mediaeval  altarpiece.  The 
Madonna  is  seated  on  a  sumptuous  throne  centrally  placed. 
The  frame,  though  plain,  has  a  pointed  top  (a  very  important 
feature).  The  background  is  perfectly  flat  and  of  figured 
gold,  and  angels  are  ranged  symmetrically  on  either  side. 
Here  are  the  two  great  characteristics  of  the  decorative 
medieval  painting,  the  flat  decorative  background,  and  the 
symmetrical  composition,  symmetrical  even  to  the  tip  of  the 
angels'  heads.    Sometimes  this  symmetry  is  ridiculous,  as  in 


B  50,  Madonna  Enthroned  (Rucellai  Madonna).    S^M.  Novella, 
Florence.    Cimabue,  1240?-1302? 


50  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

the  symmetrical  position  of  the  two  knees  and  the  folds  of 
drapery  which  hang  between  them,  at  the  same  time  that  the 
artist  has  placed  one  foot  a  whole  step  higher  than  the 
other. 

One  or  two  minor  characteristics  should  also  be  noted. 
The  Madonna  is  of  exaggerated  size  as  compared  with  the 
other  figures.  This  is  an  old-time  convention  by  which  the 
artists  sought  to  represent  symbolically  the  superior  spiritual 
estate  of  the  chief  subjects  of  their  art.  This  convention 
was  conspicuous  in  Egyptian  art  and  may  be  traced  even  in 
the  Parthenon  frieze,  where  the  artist  never  represents  a 
slave  as  quite  the  same  size  as  his  master.  Noticeable,  too, 
are  the  false  high-lights  which  spread  like  a  cobweb  of  gold 
over  the  draperies  of  Madonna  and  Child,  symbol,  apparently, 
of  the  celestial  character  of  the  wearer,  while  the  true  high- 
lights, or  exposed  surfaces  of  the'  drapery  folds,  are  quite 
independently  represented.  In  all  these  particulars  the 
picture  is  completely  representative  of  the  late  mediaeval 
painting. 

We  must  now  wend  our  way  to  the  great  church  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella,  to  which  we  shall  have  to  return  again  and 
again  as  we  trace  the  evolution  of  Florentine  art.  In  the 
barren  Chapel  of  the  Rucellai  hangs  the  famous  picture 
which  perpetuates  their  powerful  name,  the  Rucellai  Ma- 
donna (B  50),  also  attributed  to  Cimabue,  and  justly  famed  as 
the  beginning  of  the  Renaissance.  It  is  so  nearly  like  the 
one  just  described  that  we  at  first  easily  confound  the  two 
Nevertheless,  all  that  characterizes  the  new  art  is  suggested 
in  this  picture  and  is  lacking  in  the  other.  The  narrow  line 
between  these  two  pictures  is  the  boundary  between  old  and 
new.  First,  symmetry  is  deliberately  sacrificed.  We  have 
the  same  great  Madonna,  the  same  sumptuous  throne  and 
attendant  figures,  but  the  throne  is  deliberately  turned 
sidewise  so  that  we  see  athwart  one  side  of  it,  while  the  other 
side  b  concealed.    The  Madonna  Ukewise  turns  sidewise, 


B  50,  Madonna  Enthroned  (Rucellai  Madonna) . 
S.  M.  Novella,  Florence.    Cimabue,  1240  ?-1302  ? 


52  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


one  knee  is  placed  higher  than  the  other  in  proper  corre- 
spondence with  the  feet,  and  the  Child  is  thrown  conspicuously 
out  of  center.  Trifling  but  extremely  significant,  the  con- 
spicuous gold  border  upon  the  dark  robe  of  the  Madonna  is 
arranged  in  careless  irregularity  across  the  picture.  None  of 
these  things  would  amount  to  much  if  it  were  not  that  they 
are  things  easy  to  arrange  symmetrically  and  things  which 
always  have  been  so  arranged  until  now.  It  is  not  as  though 
the  artist  were  struggling  with  a  new  subject  which  refuses 
to  conform  to  the  old  law.  It  is  the  old  subject,  and  he  is 
going  out  of  his  way  to  break  with  the  old  tradition.  It  will 
be  noted,  too,  that  we  have  the  beginnings  of  perspective 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  side  of  the  chair,  the  proper  loca- 
tion of  the  legs  on  the  floor,  and  so  forth.  Finally,  the  cob- 
web of  decorative  high-lights  is  gone,  the  Child  is  signifi- 
cantly represented  as  half  nude,  while  Madonna  and  Child 
are  obviously  more  human. 

But  noting  all  these  innovations,  we  must  now  recognize 
their  limitations.  The  artist  is  plainly  frightened  and  is 
quite  unable  to  accept,  —  perhaps  unable  to  see,  —  the  full 
consequences  of  his  new  departure.  For  instance,  he  has 
turned  the  chair,  and  we  see  one  side  of  it  running  somewhat 
diagonally  across  the  room.  But  he  refuses  to  let  the  front 
of  the  chair  turn  also.  Not  to  have  that  foot-rest  line  with 
the  bottom  of  the  picture  and  the  frame  to  which  it  is  so 
near,  would  look  terribly,  he  seems  to  think ;  and  so  while 
the  chair  turns  if  you  look  at  the  side  of  it,  it  refuses  to  turn, 
if  you  look  at  the  front  of  it.  Worse  still,  when  we  get  to  the 
top  of  the  picture.  The  frame,  being  a  pointed  one,  is  very 
exacting  as  regards  symmetry.  Now  the  high  back  posts 
of  the  throne  are  supposed  to  support  a  figured  hanging,  and 
the  post  on  our  left  does  serve  as  such  a  support.  But  if  the 
other  post  were  to  serve  to  support  the  other  side,  the  hang- 
ing would  not  be  in  the  center,  for  it  must  be  remembered  that 
the  chair,  or  at  least  the  back  part  of  it,  has  been  swung 


The  Bursting  of  the  Bonds  53 

round  sidewise.  To  displace  this  great  hanging,  however, 
which  fills  the  whole  background  of  the  picture,  seems  to  our 
artist  quite  out  of  the  question,  and  so  he  ignores  the  anatomy 
of  his  chair  behind,  as  previously  he  had  done  in  front,  and 
carries  the  corner  post  round  to  where  he  needs  it.  The 
picture  remains  symmetrical  as  a  whole,  and  we  must  confess, 
so  far  as  present  results  are  concerned,  might  better  have 
been  completely  so.  Art  has  not  gained  much,  as  yet,  by 
its  revolts  and  its  new  liberty.  That  is  much  the  way  with 
revolts  and  new  liberties  of  all  sorts.  The  first  result  is 
confusion  and  inconsistency  which  makes  the  new  order  an 
easy  mark  for  criticism  on  the  part  of  the  partisans  of  the 
old  order. 

It  is  significant  of  the  good  soil  into  which,  here  in  Florence, 
the  new  seed  was  to  fall,  that  the  work  of  Cimabue  was  met, 
not  by  criticism,  but  by  enthusiastic  approval.  It  must  have 
been  something  more  than  ordinary  insight  which  enabled 
the  Florentines  to  recognize  in  this  picture  an  epoch-making 
achievement,  and  to  welcome  its  advent  with  triumphal 
processions  and  jubilation.  Perhaps  this  story  is  a  myth,  a 
recognition  in  retrospect  of  the  great  principles  which  the 
picture  embodies,  but  even  so  it  has  its  significance.  Cimabue, 
here,  in  truth  "burst  the  bonds  of  mediaeval  tradition." 

Other  peculiarities  are  more  interesting  than  important. 
For  instance,  the  hanging  or  curtain  in  the  background  is  of 
figured  stuff,  but  these  figures  are  regularly  disposed  over 
the  surface  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  curtain  is  supposed 
to  hang  in  folds.  This  is  due  to  the  traditional  practice  of 
covering  the  surface  with  a  thin  layer  of  plaster  and  executing 
decorative  figures  upon  it  in  relief  before  the  painting  is 
begun.  The  figures,  thus  executed,  cannot  adjust  themselves 
to  the  folds  which  are  painted  on  afterwards.  This  is  fairly 
characteristic  of  the  blending  of  old  and  new  in  incompatible 
union,  which  characterizes  all  Cimabue's  art. 

We  last  find  Cimabue  in  the  glorious  Church  of  Saint 


54  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Francis  at  Assisi  where  he  is  so  soon  to  be  eclipsed  by  his 
great  pupil.  One  work  in  the  Lower  Church,  however, 
undoubtedly  to  be  ascribed  to  him,  deserves  further  note. 
It  is  again  a  Madonna  and  Child  with  an  angel  on  either 
side,  and  out  at  one  side  another  figure.  Saint  Francis.  It  is 
2,  fresco  and  differs  in  consequence  from  the  tempera  paintings 
we  have  been  considering.  But  the  significant  difference  is 
in  the  normal  scale  of  the  Madonna  who  now  scarce  exceeds 
in  size  the  other  figures.  Cimabue  was  clearly  tired  of  the 
artificiality  of  the  old  convention.  Another  seeming  change 
is  the  complete  non-symmetry  of  the  picture  by  the  addition 
of  Saint  Francis,  a  break  with  the  old  tradition  which  does 
not  seem  very  subtle  or  fortunate.  This,  however,  is  prob- 
ably unintentional.  The  great  wall  on  which  this  picture  is 
painted  was  later  divided  into  regular  panels  and  its  decora- 
tion completed  by  Giotto.  It  looks  very  much  as  though 
Cimabue's  picture  had  once  been  larger  than  now,  with 
another  figure  on  the  left  matching  the  Saint  Francis,  probably 
the  usual  figure  of  Saint  Clara.  If  so,  Cimabue  apparently 
painted  his  picture  with  little  thought  of  other  pictures  to  be 
painted  later,  and  when  Giotto  came  to  divide  the  whole 
wall  up  into  uniform  panels,  he  found  Cimabue's  picture  too 
large  to  fit,  and  rather  than  spoil  the  symmetry  of  the  whole 
wall,  he  trimmed  off  the  end  of  the  over-large  picture.  Some 
things  in  the  character  of  the  picture  indicate  such  a  trim- 
ming. If  so,  Cimabue  never  departs  widely  from  the  charac- 
ter of  the  older  art.  He  retains  its  flat  background,  its 
symmetry,  its  general  character.  But  he  is  restive  under  all 
these  limitations.  This  is  the  significant  thing.  Art  had 
spent  a  thousand  years  in  perfecting  this  style  with  its 
comely  symmetries  and  its  golden  splendor,  and  no  sooner 
is  the  task  achieved,  as  in  the  great  mosaic  of  Santa  Maria  in 
Trastevere,  than  restless  art  tires  of  its  own  creation  and 
begins  to  work  out  a  new  ideal.  Cimabue  was  educated  in 
the  old  order,  knew  the  older  art,  long  accepted  it  even,  but 


The  Bursting  of  the  Bonds  55 

finally  becomes  restive  and  strives  for  a  new  art,  new  prin- 
ciples, new  ideals.  But  that  new  art  was  not  to  be  his. 
He  saw  and  greeted  it  from  afar,  only  to  resign  its  quest  to 
younger  and  less  trammeled  spirits. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  FIRST  OF   THE  MODERNS 

The  greatest  of  Cimabue's  achievements  remains  to  be 
recorded,  namely  his  discovery  of  Giotto.  Whether  it  be 
true,  as  we  are  told,  that  he  found  him,  a  shepherd  boy, 
drawing  a  picture  of  a  sheep  upon  a  stone,  and  asked  him 
to  come  to  his  studio,  we  do  not  know,  but  it  is  very  like 
imto  the  truth.  It  was  from  nature,  from  real  sheep  and 
real  men,  that  Giotto  received  his  impulse  toward  art,  not 
from  the  fettered  art  of  the  past.  It  is  certain,  too,  that  he 
studied  with  Cimabue.  Whether  Cimabue  greatly  influenced 
him,  we  do  not  know,  but  if  he  did,  the  result  is  much  to  his 
credit.  In  any  case,  he  seems  never  to  have  fettered  Giotto 
with  the  traditions  from  which  he  himself  had  not  been  able 
wholly  to  escape.  Some  of  Giotto's  early  pictures  smack? 
of  this  mediaeval  symmetry  and  remind  us  of  Cimabue,  but 
these  resemblances  are  few  and  slight.  Giotto's  pictures 
have  their  limitations,  but  they  are  the  limitations  of  a  new 
art  not  perfectly  mastered  rather  than  the  limitations  of 
tradition.  They  may  seem  old-fashioned  to  us,  now  that 
the  centuries  have  made  old  the  fashion  that  he  taught,  but 
certainly  to  Cimabue  and  the  people  of  his  time  the  art  was 
amazingly  new.  He  does  not  take  a  traditional  picture, 
symmetrical  and  formal,  and  timidly  give  it  a  few  modern 
touches.  He  starts  his  pictures  as  though  there  had  never 
been  any  symmetries,  taking  characters  and  actions  direct 
from  life.  More  than  this,  he  is  infinitely  clever  in  sug- 
gesting incidents  which  the  painter  cannot  fully  express.  It 
is  very  rare  that  a  man  in  any  field  is  able  to  wipe  the  past 

S6 


The  First  of  the  Moderns  57 

quite  off  the  slate  and  start  new,  as  though  there  had  been  no 
past,  and  yet  with  all  the  experience  and  skill  which  the  past 
had  accumulated.  Something  of  this  supreme  newness 
Giotto  brought  into  art.  The  fact  that  he  did  not  master 
all  the  intricacies  of  drawing  and  perspective  which  the  new  art 
required  is  of  very  little  consequence  in  our  estimate  of  his 
genius.  This  detailed  mastery  is  the  work  of  the  hack. 
It  is  as  nothing  compared  with  the  formulating  of  a  new 
program,  a  new  ideal. 

Giotto  is  one  of  the  three  greatest  names  in  Itahan  art. 
The  limitations  of  his  technique  are  a  barrier  to  the  appre- 
ciation of  his  art  by  those  familiar  with  the  later  finished 
style  of  Michelangelo  or  Titian.  Yet  Giotto  is  a  greater 
spirit  than  Titian  and  worthy  of  a  place  in  our  honor,  along- 
side of  Michelangelo  himself,  the  one  the  first,  and  the  other 
the  last  great  artist  of  the  Italian  Renaissance.  His  was  a 
wholesome  and  tonic  personality.  Sanity  and  wholesome 
mirth  followed  him  through  the  length  of  Italy.  Even  his 
name  is  significant.  Christened  Ambrose,  or  Ambrogio,  as 
the  Italians  call  it,  the  ending,  otto,  diminutive  and  endearing, 
was  added  while  a  child  and  retained  when  a  man.  And  then 
because  Ambrogiotto  was  too  long  for  easy  use,  it  was  short- 
ened to  Giotto,  precisely  as  a  boy  christened  Albert  may 
later  be  known  as  Bertie.  But  the  Italians  have,  not  one 
but  many  expressive  endings,  and  it  means  much  that  this 
one  was  chosen  rather  than  ino  or  accio  which  we  find  in  the 
nicknames  of  other  artists.  It  means  that  men  liked  the 
little  Ambrose,  and  that  they  continued  to  like  him  after 
he  became  a  man. 

Giotto  seems  to  have  begun  his  career  with  the  great  works 
in  the  Lower  Church  of  Assisi,  close  beside  those  of  his 
master.  There  are  first  of  all  the  frescoes  in  the  central  vault, 
over  the  high  altar  and  the  tomb  of  St.  Francis.  They  form  a 
group  by  themselves,  less  distinctive  of  the  artist's  tempera- 
ment, perhaps,  than  those  of  Padua  or  Florence,  but  not 


58  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

less  admirable.  He  was  not  yet  altogether  free.  First  of 
all  there  was  the  architectural  problem  with  which  he  had 
to  reckon  and  to  which  he  has  made  necessary  but  admirable 
concessions.  And  second,  there  seems  to  have  been  an 
intellectual  environment,  doubtless  that  of  the  monks,  and 
the  scholasticism  of  his  time,  which  he  is  not  altogether  free 
to  ignore.  Doubtless,  too,  he  has  not  wholly  found  himself. 
He  was  learning  in  this  same  time  to  scoff  at  the  asceticism 
of  the  Franciscans,  for  the  infinite  health  of  Giotto's  nature 
had  nothing  in  common  with  the  morbidity  which  the  suc- 
cessors of  Francis  so  speedily  manifested.  But  he  had  not 
yet  won  his  spurs,  and  had  almost  certainly  to  follow  in  part 
the  suggestions  of  others. 

Such  pictures  as  the  Vows  of  Saint  Francis  are  suggestive 
of  this  strange  alliance.  Let  us  take,  for  instance,  the  Vow  of 
Obedience  (B  55) .  It  is  a  broad-spreading  triangle  that  Giotto 
is  called  upon  to  fill,  a  triangle  bounded  on  either  side  by  mighty 
arches  which  Giotto  has  made  doubly  impressive  by  the  rich 
borders  with  which  he  has  bounded  his  space.  In  a  space 
thus  shaped,  thus  situated,  and  thus  emphasized,  an  un- 
symmetrical  picture  was  unthinkable.  The  center  of  the 
triangle  is  occupied  by  a  quaint  little  architectural  structure 
difficult  to  characterize.  It  is  hardly  a  building,  scarce 
more  than  a  canopy  supported  by  pillars  the  size  of  curtain 
poles  —  a  device  of  which  Giotto  is  fond.  He  wastes  no 
time  on  pretentious  architecture.  It  is  fair  to  add  per- 
haps that  he  could  not  have  made  a  very  artistic  use  of 
it  if  he  had  tried,  architect  though  he  was.  Even  in  the 
fullness  of  the  Renaissance  more  pictures  were  spoiled  by 
architecture  than  by  the  lack  of  it.  These  flimsy,  archi- 
tectural constructions  in  Giotto's  picture  serve  on  the  one 
hand  the  simple  purpose  of  dividing  his  space  without  wasting 
much  of  it,  and,  on  the  other,  a  symbolistic  purpose.  They 
suggest  a  temple  or  a  palace,  though  they  do  not  represent 
one. 


6o  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


This  little  canopy  leaves  a  triangle  in  the  top  in  which  stands 
the  figure  of  St.  Francis,  with  an  angel  on  either  side.  He 
turns  his  hands  outward,  and  his  feet  are  visible  to  show  the 
famous  stigmata.  The  angels,  kneeling,  fill  out  the  space 
in  a  satisfactory  manner.  But  sincerity  compels  us  to  admit 
that  there  is  nothing  very  thrilling  about  this  representation. 

Below,  under  the  canopy,  which  is  divided  into  three  com- 
partments, we  have  in  the  center  a  very  ill-favored  female 
figure  who  holds  one  finger  to  her  lips  in  token  of  silence, 
and  with  the  other  hand  lays  upon  the  neck  of  the  kneeling 
monk,  a  yoke,  such  as  was  used  by  the  Italians  in  harnessing 
a  single  animal  for  draught  purposes.  The  kneeling  monk 
accepts  the  yoke  from  the  female  figure,  who  represents  the 
abstract  idea  of  the  Rules  of  the  Order.  Giotto,  never  a 
devotee  of  sensuous  beauty  as  such,  was,  after  all,  able  to 
represent  beauty  of  a  dignified  and  lofty  type.  Here  he 
purposely  avoids  it.  He  would  avoid  the  impression  that 
the  Rules  of  the  Order  are  attractive.  On  the  contrary,  they 
are  forbidding  and  austere. 

In  the  left-hand  compartment  is  a  figure  whose  meaning 
we  should  never  guess  if  we  were  not  taught.  She  has  a 
double  face,  one  behind  and  one  before,  but  duplicity  is  far 
from  being  the  suggestion.  It  is  the  traditional  way  of 
representing  Prudence,  who  looks  backward  as  well  as 
forward,  stud^ang  consequences  as  well  as  prospects,  a  sug- 
gestive symbol  when  you  know  it,  but  one  that  few  would 
ever  guess.  In  the  right-hand  compartment  is  a  strange, 
draped  figure  which  we  recognize  finally  as  a  centaur.  The 
centaur  was  one  of  the  three  or  four  items  from  the  repertory 
of  pagan  art  which  appealed  sufficiently  to  the  popular 
imagination  to  survive  in  Christian  art.  Inasmuch  as  the 
personnel  of  this  pagan  art,  far  from  being  non-existent  to 
the  Christian  mind,  was  thought  of  as  being  jealous  and 
hostile,  the  pagan  divinities  speedily  became  demons.  Figures 
like  Apollo  did  not  long  persist.    There  was  nothing  character- 


The  First  of  the  Moderns  6i 

istic  about  them.  But  the  streaming  beard  of  Kronos  with 
his  scythe,  the  trident  of  Neptune,  and  the  Centaur,  stick 
fast  and  are  turned  to  account.  The  Centaur  represents 
evil  in  one  form  or  another,  and  now  in  Giotto's  picture, 
draped  in  a  long  robe,  he  seems  to  try  to  enter  this  enclosure 
in  disguise.  But,  to  his  consternation,  as  he  enters,  the  robe 
stays  behind.  He  throws  up  his  hands  in  horror,  realizing 
that  his  true  character  is  revealed.  The  symbolism  again 
is  significant  if  not  easy. 

It  is  needless  to  go  farther  into  detail.  In  every  subject 
our  symbolism  is  arbitrary,  which  means  that  it  is  but  feebly 
artistic.  A  fundamental  condition  of  a  good  picture  is  that 
it  shall  be  self-interpreting.  This  the  stilted  symbolism  of 
the  middle  ages  did  not  permit.  Men  did  not  seem  to  think 
it  necessary  that  symbols  should  explain  themselves,  because 
they  were  so  educated  in  this  symbolism  that  they  scarce 
realized  its  artificiality.  Who  objects  to  writing,  on  the 
ground  that  the  letters  of  our  alphabet  are  arbitrary? 
We  learn  them  so  young  and  find  them  so  serviceable  that 
their  arbitrariness  is  quite  forgotten.  So  with  mediaeval 
art,  and  so  with  this  first  chapter  in  Giotto's  art. 

The  Vow  of  Chastity  is  similarly  stilted  and  scholastic,  if 
not  quite  so  intricate.  But  as  we  come  to  the  Vow  of  Poverty 
(B  56),  Giotto  was  there  freer  to  be  himself  or  was  indebted  to  a 
far  better  suggestion.  It  stirs  our  deepest  feeling  to  see  this 
vow  of  the  Franciscans  represented  in  the  guise  of  the  mar- 
riage of  Saint  Francis  to  Poverty,  the  ceremony  being  per- 
formed by  Christ.  Nor  does  it  require  much  explanation  to 
understand  the  figure  of  this  haggard  and  woebegone  bride, 
whose  robes  hang  in  tatters,  whose  face  has  lost  all  come- 
Hness,  and  whose  youth  has  long  disappeared.  But  upon  her 
unlovely  countenance  Saint  Francis  gazes  with  all  the  ardor 
of  a  lover.  Nor  can  any  fail  to  perceive  the  significance  of 
the  figures  gathered  about,  —  the  dog  that  barks  furiously 
at  the  bride  while  the  ceremony  is  in  progress,  the  youth 


The  First  of  the  Moderns  63 

below  who  throws  a  stone  at  her,  the  substantial  burgh- 
ers to  the  right  who  turn  doubtfully  away.  The  choice  of 
Francis  calls  forth  at  once  the  jest  of  the  frivolous  and  the 
skepticism  of  the  thoughtful,  as  such  a  choice  has  ever  done. 

The  immense  advantage  of  this  picture  as  compared  with 
the  others  is  that  it  is  self-interpreting.  The  thoughtful 
observer  would  not  fail  to  guess  the  essential  meaning  of  it 
all.  To  some  one,  in  all  probability  to  Giotto  himself,  we 
owe  this  new  departure.  Here  is  still  symbolism,  but  it  is 
true  pictorial  symbolism,  symbolism  which  carries  its  own 
label,  and  better  still,  symbolism  which  is  richly  charged 
with  feeling.  Symbols  which  are  arbitrary,  which  acquire 
meaning  only  as  the  result  of  outside  interpretation,  and 
whose  meaning  when  acquired  is  intellectual  rather  than 
emotional,  may  have  great  value  in  other  connections,  but 
they  belong  to  the  world  of  science  rather  than  to  the  world 
of  art.  This  is  the  suflScient  condemnation  of  vast  quan- 
tities of  Christian  art,  and  is  in  sharpest  contrast  with  the 
self-explained  art  of  the  Greeks. 

From  this  time  on,  and  perhaps  as  the  result  of  the  picture 
last  mentioned,  Giotto  seems  to  have  been  free.  The  ad- 
jacent vault  ceilings  are  covered  in  part  with  his  work, 
magnificent  in  color,  for  no  artist  of  his  time  or  any  other, 
knew  the  value  of  color  better  than  he,  simple  and  natural 
and  yet  superbly  appropriate  in  their  grouping  and,  above 
all  things,  invariably  charged  with  feeling  of  the  straight- 
forward, childlike  sort  which  appeals  to  unspoiled  spirits. 

The  splendid  Arena  Chapel  in  Padua  is  one  of  the  most 
successfully  decorated  buildings  in  the  world.  It  has  the 
advantage  of  being  of  moderate  size,  and  seems  to  have  been 
decorated  by  Giotto  in  a  single  period  without  interruption 
or  diversion  of  thought.  Our  attention  to  this  incomparable 
work  must  necessarily  be  brief.  The  long  series  of  pictures 
represent  the  story  of  the  Virgin  and  Christ.  Take,  for  in- 
stance, the  Presentation  of  the  Virgin  (B  58),  grotesque  in  its 


^^^^^^M^m 

w^^^^^^tKM^^^iK 

'  """"*  H  QiA^^Bm 

H 

B  58,  The  Presentation  of  the  Virgin. 

Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua. 

Giotto,  1266?-1336. 


The  First  of  the  Moderns  65 

architectural  setting  but  magnificent  in  its  truth  to  life  and 
sentiment.  The  temple  is  a  curious  little  sentinel  box,  ill- 
drawn,  with  faulty  perspective,  a  symbol  at  best,  for  Giotto 
knew  what  a  temple  was  like.  Up  the  stairs  walks  the  little 
Virgin,  the  loveliest  and  most  unspoiled,  unconscious  creature 
imaginable,  greeted  by  the  benignant  old  priest  and  watched 
with  just  a  touch  of  solicitude  and  pride  by  the  mother  and 
friends  who  stand  below.  Nothing  strange  about  it  except 
its  complete  lack  of  artificiality,  and  the  easy  confidence 
with  which  the  artist  rests  his  case  upon  the  sentiments  of 
the  unspoiled  heart. 

To  choose  again  at  random,  let  us  notice  the  Nativity. 
The  mother,  too  noble  to  be  merely  pretty,  too  healthy  to  be 
sentimental,  fondles  the  child,  close  wrapped  in  Italian 
fashion,  while  Joseph  sits  by,  fast  asleep.  Giotto's  repertory 
of  suggestion  is  limitless.  He  would  have  us  understand 
that  Joseph  is  not  the  father  of  the  child,  hence  this  lessened 
interest  which,  were  he  the  father,  would  be  inappropriate. 
In  the  heavens  above  appear  the  angels  with  their  song  of 
good  will,  while  near  by  stand  the  shepherds  with  their 
flocks.  Contrary  to  all  the  traditions  of  art,  these  shepherds 
turn  their  backs  upon  us,  or  nearly  so,  gazing  at  the  angels 
in  the  sky  above.  Giotto  is  drawing  for  the  first  time  now 
upon  that  psychic  suggestion  which  is  to  play  so  large  a 
part  in  the  art  of  the  later  time.  He  wants  us  to  see,  and 
fully  see,  the  angels  which  are  so  important  a  part  of  the 
story  and  yet  are  pictorially  subordinated.  To  be  sure 
that  we  see  them,  his  shepherds  look  at  them,  knowing  that 
we  will  look  where  they  look,  in  deference  to  a  universal 
habit. 

(B  61)  The  Flight  into  Egypt  is  suggestive  of  the  resource 
and  of  the  limitations  of  Giotto's  art.  Nothing  could  exceed 
the  naturalness  of  this  group  as  they  trudge  along,  more  par- 
ticularly of  the  donkey  which  Giotto  alone  among  the  artists 
of  this  time  drew  without  any  humanizing  tendency.     Notice 


B  61,  The  Flight  into  Egypt.    Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua. 
Giotto,  1266?-1336. 


The  First  of  the  Moderns  67 

a  donkey  by  Ghirlandajo.  He  pricks  up  his  ears  and  looks 
out  of  his  eyes  straight  forward,  with  a  lively  curiosity  at 
the  new  born  babe,  completely,  though  unintentionally, 
humanized  by  the  unobservant  artist.  But  Giotto  has  given 
us  the  unparticipating  stolidity  of  the  donkey  which  has  given 
him  his  metaphorical  character  ^in  human  speech,  and  which 
here  adds  that  touch  of  nature  that  makes  the  whole  world 
kin.  The  seriousness  of  the  mother  as  she  bears  the  sacred 
child,  the  homely  loyalty  of  Joseph,  and  the  gossiping  frivolity 
of  the  attendants,  all  are  true  to  life,  of  which  Giotto  is  the 
obvious  prophet.  But  the  background  is  nothing  less  than 
amusing.  Little  hills  that  look  as  if  carved  out  of  beeswax, 
with  trees  like  feather  dusters  stuck  here  and  there,  are 
Giotto's  way  of  telling  us  that  the  flight  took  place  through  a 
mountainous  and  wooded  country.  Yet  Giotto  was  born 
in  the  mountains,  and  pastured  his  sheep  among  the  hills  of 
Mugello.  No  one  knew  better  than  he  what  mountains 
and  woods  were  like.  He  simply  does  not  try  to  represent 
them,  believing  that  they  surpass  the  limits  of  art,  as  indeed 
in  so  many  pictures  they  have  done.  Giotto's  program  is 
naturalism  in  living  creatures  and  symbolism  in  their  setting, 
where  naturalism  seems  to  him  impossible,  perhaps  un- 
desirable. 

The  Baptism  of  Christ  is  similarly  significant.  Jesus  stands 
in  the  water  and  John  is  pouring  water  upon  his  head.  On 
the  one  side  stand  the  angels,  traditional  guardians  of  the 
Saviour's  garments,  beautiful  figures,  though  of  the  quaint 
Giottesque  type;  and  on  the  other  stand  witnesses  of  the 
event,  only  two,  and  these  two  different  in  a  significant 
manner,  for  Giotto  never  uses  an  unnecessary  figure.  Of 
these  witnesses  one  wears  a  halo  and  the  other  does  not. 
They  represent  the  two  classes  of  witnesses  without  whose 
combined  testimony  the  event  would  seem  not  fully  ac- 
credited. The  disciple  of  John,  so  soon  to  become  the 
disciple  of  Jesus,  wears  the  halo,  as  becomes  a  saint  in  the 


68  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


Church.  The  other,  the  casual  spectator,  sympathetic  but 
not  a  follower,  wears  no  halo.  We  thus  have  outside  and 
unbiased  testimony.  A  similar  thoughtfulness  is  manifest 
in  the  representation  of  the  hair,  which,  on  all  the  figures, 
save  that  of  Jesus,  is  curly,  but  the  hair  of  Jesus  hangs  in 
straight  fiat  masses  as  wet  hair  should.  You  can  imagine 
the  water  dripping  from  the  ends.  Why  not,  says  one? 
Yet  it  is  to  be  noted  that  in  the  whole  history  of  Christian 
art,  no  other  artist  bethought  himself  that  hair  when  wet 
looked  different  from  hair  when  dry.  It  is  thinking  about 
these  things  that  makes  the  difference  between  naturalness 
and  symbolism,  and  it  is  in  this  difference  that  the  very 
essence  of  Giotto's  art  consists. 

(B  64)  The  Corruption  of  Judas  is  a  masterpiece,  a  simple 
group  of  three  or  four  figures  which  is  a  study  in  psychology 
as  well  as  in  action.  And  the  whole  is  supplemented  by  a 
marvellously  suggestive  symbolism,  as  in  the  case  of  the  halo 
on  Judas,  which  has  half  disappeared  and  is  vanishing  away, 
for -it  was  in  this  moment  that  he  lost  his  claim  to  sainthood. 
But  notice  these  figures.  Christian  tradition  has  blackened 
the  character  of  both  Judas  and  his  seducers;  on  the  one 
hand  was  treason,  sometimes  imagined  as  deliberate  from 
the  beginning;  on  the  other  hand  was  cold-blooded  vin- 
dictiveness  against  righteousness.  Little  sympathy  has  been 
wasted  upon  these  personalities  that  form  the  background  of 
the  great  tragedy.  Yet  look  at  these  representations  of  the 
priestly  party.  It  is  significant  that  they  are  identical  in 
feature  and  in  spirit  with  the  benignant  priest  who  welcomes 
the  little  virgin  in  the  earlier  painting.  They  are  substantial, 
well-meaning  men  who  are  guarding  the  interests  that  they 
are  set  to  guard  by  unwelcome  but  seemingly  necessary 
means.  And  Judas,  not  the  black-featured  villain  that  Leon- 
nardo  makes  him —  his  eye  gleams  with  a  strange  and  fanatical 
lustre,  an  unbalanced,  misguided  man,  a  fanatic  who  sees 
things  in  false  perspective,  a  weakling  who  served  the  purpose 


B  64,  The  Corruption  of  Judas.    Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua. 
Giotto,  1266?-1336. 


70  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


of  strength.  How  much  more  generously,  how  much  more 
plausibly  Giotto  has  told  the  story!  It  is  interesting  to  note 
that  the  same  sympathy  is  the  basis  of  the  marvellous  inter- 
pretation which  the  whole  world  goes  to  Oberammergau  to 
see.    Without  sympathy  there  is  no  understanding. 

One  remaining  figure  must  not  escape  our  notice.  Back 
of  Judas  stands  Satan,  almost  the  only  representation  of  this 
character  in  Giotto's  art.  He  is  included  here  because  the 
narrative  required  it,  "Satan  having  entered  into  the  heart 
of  Judas  Iscariot  to  betray  him."  Think  what  it  means  to 
have  told  the  whole  Bible  story  with  scarce  a  reference  to 
the  diabolism  that  was  so  common  in  human  thought. 
Centuries  after  this,  a  strong-minded  man  can  throw  his 
inkstand  at  the  devil,  and  can  speak  of  devils  in  Worms  as 
numerous  as  chimneys  upon  the  house  tops.  Only  in  our 
time  has  the  devil  faded  out  of  human  thought,  the  last 
remnant  of  the  gross  terrorism  of  an  earlier  faith.  Think 
what  it  means  that  Giotto,  six  centuries  ago,  should  have 
eliminated  the  devil  from  his  thought ;  that  to  him  should 
have  been  revealed  so  surely  the  great  truth  that  ''out  of  the 
heart  are  the  issues  of  life."  It  is  character  that  explains 
conduct,  and  it  is  human  passions  and  the  familiar  daily 
human  interests  that  account  for  the  events  which  he  por- 
trays.    Giotto  was  indeed  the  first  of  the  moderns. 

The  Entrance  into  Jerusalem  suggests  farther  resource. 
Jesus  rides  upon  the  ass's  colt :  the  people  wave  palm  branches 
and  spread  their  garments  in  the  way.  So  far  all  is  familiar. 
But  notice  the  figures  climbing  the  palm  trees  to  pluck  the 
branches;  more  striking  still,  figures  pulling  their  sweater- 
like garments  off  over  their  heads.  There  is  nothing  improb- 
able about  this.  Plainly  the  branches  must  be  plucked  and 
the  garments  must  be  taken  off,  although  these  facts  are  not 
mentioned  in  the  story.  To  Giotto  they  are  valuable  as 
not  only  enriching  the  story  but,  in  particular,  giving  it 
vividness  by  the  introduction  of  the  unhackneyed  incident. 


The  First  of  the  Moderns  71 

A  glaze  rests  upon  the  story  so  often  repeated.  Add  inevi- 
table incidents  not  thus  glazed  and  the  story  has  hfe  again. 

Notice  again  the  Crucifixion,  the  swooning  figure  of  the 
mother  and  the  mourning  friends,  not  very  happily  portrayed 
as  regards  this  tragedy  of  feeling,  for  Giotto  is  but  moderately 
a  master  of  this  phase  of  human  expression.  But  notice  the 
figures  on  the  right.  The  centurion  points  toward  the 
Christ  with  the  words,  "Verily  this  was  a  Son  of  God."  The 
sober  but  not  malevolent  priest  looks  and  listens  attentively. 
In  the  foreground  are  the  three  soldiers  disputing  over  the 
seamless  garment.  One  draws  his  knife,  evidently  to  divide 
it,  his  companion  opposite  interrupts  him  with  a  spirited 
protest  and  a  gesture  that  unmistakably  betrays  his  interest, 
while  a  third  stands  as  umpire,  both  listening,  and  by  a  turn 
of  his  head,  throwing  his  weight  plainly  on  the  side  of  the 
protestant.  The  striking  thing  about  this  group  is  the 
absolute  certainty  with  w^hich  we  can  tell  what  each  man  is 
doing,  almost  what  he  is  saying.  No  artist  ever  lived  who 
was  able  to  suggest  thoughts  quite  beyond  the  limits  of 
direct  pictorial  expression  so  forcefully  and  certainly  as 
Giotto. 

The  Mourning  over  the  Body  of  Christ  is  again  a  master- 
piece despite  certain  obvious  limitations,  for  here  as  else- 
where Giotto  is  unable  to  represent  the  tragic  emotions  in  a 
subtle  way.  The  grouping  of  the  figures,  however,  the  long 
diagonal  line  of  the  rocks,  which  seems  to  have  acquired  an 
unconscious  symbolical  meaning  in  the  composition  of 
Christian  pictures,  is  excellent.  But  most  striking  of  all  is 
the  treatment  of  the  draperies.  They  fall,  straight  and 
heavy,  as  though  they  had  lead  in  their  hems.  No  breeze 
ruffles  the  stagnant  air.  Just  imagine  for  a  moment  that 
these  draperies  were  of  the  Botticelli  sort,  light  and  tossed 
by  the  wind.  It  is  impossible  to  associate  with  them  that 
deep  grief  which  here  is  so  evident.  It  is  uncertain  whether 
Giotto  had  any  theories  upon  this  point;  like  a  true  artist, 


72  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

he  had  intuitions  which  were  more  reliable.  But  that  there 
is  an  analogy  that  is  fairly  constant  in  the  human  mind, 
between  certain  things  spiritual  and  things  material  cannot 
be  doubted.  Our  language  is  full  of  it.  Heaviness  is  a 
synonym  for  sorrow,  and  in  adjective  and  noun  is  con- 
tinually drawn  upon  for  spiritual  purposes.  "Their  hearts 
were  heavy  within  them,"  and  "They  were  sore  (heavy) 
afraid."  Few  will  recognize  the  means  that  Giotto  has  used 
for  this  effect,  but  none  will  fail  to  recognize  the  effect. 
Here  as  elsewhere  our  artist's  instinct  is  unerring. 

It  may  be  worth  while  before  we  leave  the  Paduan  Chapel 
to  notice  Giotto's  later  symbolism.  The  series  of  small 
panels  are  decorated  with  figures  representing  the  Virtues 
and  the  Vices.  They  are  of  unequal  suggestiveness,  but 
strikingly  significant.  Hope,  with  its  upward  movement,  as 
characterized  by  attitude  and  draperies,  is  simple  but  to  the 
point.  Envy  (Invidia)  (B  70)  is  the  masterpiece  of  them  all. 
Here  is  a  figure  of  a  woman  the  ugliest  imaginable.  A 
serpent  issues  from  her  mouth,  but  with  strange  perversity 
turns  and  bites  her  in  the  face.  A  horn,  suggestive  of  aggres- 
sive power,  here  turns  and  grows  back  into  her  head.  The 
ear,  enormously  large,  suggests  that  she  hears  altogether  too 
much.  The  hands,  one  clutching  a  bag,  suggestive  of  greed 
and  selfishness  (for  envy  is  the  most  selfish  of  vices),  and  the 
other  with  claw-like  fingers  uncanny  in  its  suggestion.  And, 
finally,  the  figure  stands  in  the  midst  of  flames,  —  in  hot 
water,  as  we  should  say,  —  for  Envy  is  a  characteristic  most 
troublesome  to  its  possessor.  All  this  is  fanciful,  a  thing 
for  which  nature  gives  no  counterpart,  but  as  contrasted  with 
the  Vow  of  Obedience,  it  has  the  great  advantage  that  every- 
thing is  self-interpreting.  The  novice  could  guess,  if  not  the 
name,  at  least  the  spirit  of  the  figure  that  is  here  represented. 

It  was  the  good  fortune  of  Florence  that  the  much-wander- 
ing artist  should  return  in  his  prime  to  leave  in  grand  old 
Santa  Croce  the  ripest  example  of  his  art.    In  the  Bardi  and 


B  70,  Envy.    Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua. 
Giotto,  1266  ?-1336. 


74  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Peruzzi  Chapels,  commemorative  of  the  mighty  families 
who  preceded  the  Medici  and  were  wrecked  by  the  earlier 
vicissitudes  of  banking,  Giotto  has  given  us  the  Story  of 
Saint  Francis  and  the  Story  of  Saint  John.  No  detailed 
study  of  these  various  scenes  is  possible  here.  Let  us  rather 
note  the  new  elements  that  Giotto  has  called  to  his  aid.  The 
splendid  composition  of  such  a  picture  as  the  Death  of  Saint 
Francis,  orderly  yet  free,  has  been  admired  in  all  ages,  and 
was  imitated  to  the  point  of  absolute  plagiarism  by  so  facile 
a  painter  as  Ghirlandajo  in  the  near  by  church  of  Santa 
Trinita.  Or,  again,  let  us  look  at  the  Resurrection  and 
Assumption  of  Saint  John  (B  75),  so  like  what  we  have  seen 
before,  yet  so  much  fuller  in  resource.  The  open  grave  in  the 
left  foreground,  dark,  and  therefore  not  appealing  to  the  eye, 
Giotto  feels  will  pass  imnoticed,  and  thus  a  part  of  the  picture 
be  lost.  Hence  a  figure  near  by  leans  forward  and  peers 
into  the  grave.  Psychic  suggestion  serves  its  purpose,  and 
we  notice  inevitably  the  grave  into  which  he  is  gazing.  Other 
figures  gaze  upon  the  scene,  one  even  shielding  his  eyes  from 
the  blazing  rays  of  light,  while  another  falls  in  absolute  col- 
lapse, overcome  by  the  startling  apparition.  Not  only  do 
we  look  where  these  bystanders  look,  impelled  by  suggestion, 
but  we  feel  in  a  measure  the  excitement  that  overwhelms 
their  fallen  companion.  He  thus  intensifies  the  impression 
which,  necessarily  weak  in  painting  as  compared  with  life 
itself,  gains  immense  force  from  this  suggestion. 

The  earthly  scene  takes  place  underneath  the  familiar 
canopy,  through  an  opening  in  which  passes  the  ascending 
figure  to  a  little  second  story,  small  and  flimsy.  Here  again 
we  need  help  where  once  all  was  familiar.  This  is  the  device 
of  the  mediaeval  theatre,  whose  two  or  three  storied  stage 
represented  earth  and  heaven,  sometimes  more.  The 
ascending  figure,  met  by  the  descending  Christ  and  com- 
panions gone  before,  might  possibly  leave  a  doubt  as  to  the 
ultimate  destination  of  the  group.     Not  so  with  this  familiar 


76  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

device.  The  upper  story  is  unmistakably  heaven.  It  is 
difficult  to  be  perfectly  sure  of  Giotto's  detail  in  a  work  so 
carefully  restored  as  is  this  painting,  which  has  been  but 
recently  recovered  from  the  concealing  whitewash,  but  if 
this  is  anywise  true  of  Giotto,  he  learned  in  his  later  days 
to  represent  the  Christ  with  a  beauty  undreamed  of  before 
and  seldom  equaled  since. 

Most  significant  and  masterly  of  all  is  the  Trial  by  Fire 
(B  72)  in  which  Saint  Francis  appears  before  the  Sultan  and 
challenges  the  Moslem  faith  to  the  test  of  fire.  He  will  walk 
through  the  flames  if  a  representative  of  the  other  faith  will 
do  the  same.  It  is  a  familiar  statement  with  regard  to  the 
art  of  this  earlier  time  that  it  is  objective,  that  we  see  the 
outward  acts  but  that  Httle  attention  is  given  to  the  minuter 
portrayal  of  the  passions  which  accompanied  and  engendered 
those  acts.  Giotto's  art  is  not  dramatic  but  anecdotal.  The 
essence  of  the  dramatic  is  the  portrayal  of  situations  and 
events  in  terms  of  the  passions  which  are  their  explanation. 
This  subjectivity  in  art  we  usually  assign  to  Masaccio  and, 
in  fuller  measure,  to  Leonardo.  But  notice  these  figures 
in  Giotto's  ripest  work.  Saint  Francis  stands  before  the 
blazing  fire  invoking  the  ordeal  with  unmistakable  confidence, 
while  his  companion,  loyal,  but  of  different  nerve,  shrinks 
with  obvious  cringing  from  a  test  that  staggers  his  faith. 
The  Sultan  plainly  accepts  the  ordeal  and  points  the  Muftis 
standing  by,  toward  the  fire.  They  are  clearly  otherwise 
minded.  One  is  just  disappearing  through  the  open  door; 
another  is  making  his  way  as  rapidly  as  possible  toward 
it,  while  the  third  and  last,  also  minded  to  escape,  is  laid  hold 
of  by  the  attendant,  with  obvious  expostulation.  Notice 
the  expression  upon  his  face.  In  it  we  can  read  the  con- 
flicting emotions  of  anger  and  fear.  He  protests  against 
the  whole  affair  with  arguments  born  of  the  emergency,  while 
mingled  with  his  terror  is  unconcealed  anger  at  the  arresting 
hand  of  the  attendant.    Action  and  attitude  are  expressive, 


78  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

but  so  is  countenance  as  well.  We  must  wait  a  century  and 
more  to  find  another  picture  in  which  emotion  reveals  itself 
so  significantly.  Giotto  at  the  last  anticipates  the  centuries 
that  are  to  come.  He  is  the  prophecy  of  the  Renaissance, 
and  at  the  best,  almost  its  fulfillment. 

As  we  pass  briefly  in  review  these  varied  scenes  from  the 
great  book  of  life  which  Giotto  knew  so  well,  let  us  forget,  if 
possible,  their  limitations,  the  imperfect  drawing,  the  inade- 
quate portrayal  of  the  deeper  passions,  the  shallow  and 
faulty  perspective,  the  meager  and  symbolistic  setting. 
These  things  will  pass,  even  with  the  plodding  toil  of  little 
men.  Let  us  rather  see  how  utterly  the  mediaeval  formalism, 
the  life-repressing  symmetries  of  the  earlier  art  have  been 
forgotten.  Art  is  now  servant  unto  life,  and  it  is  but  a 
question  of  time  when  she  shall  enter  into  the  fulness  of  that 
liberty  wherewith  Giotto  made  her  free. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   LARGER  VISION 

Art  paid  its  respects  to  Giotto  by  a  century  of  imitation. 
It  was  a  busy  century,  and  the  many  votaries  of  art  differed 
as  much  in  temperament  as  at  any  time,  but  at  first  sight  all 
these  differences  seem  subordinated  to  a  general  sameness, 
which,  once  examined,  proves  to  be  only  a  resemblance  to 
Giotto,  a  resemblance  in  color,  in  conception,  in  manner,  in 
everything  but  genius.  Some  of  these  Giotteschi,  as  these 
followers  of  Giotto  are  called,  are  his  very  opposite  in  tem- 
perament, as  we  shall  see  in  a  later  chapter,  but  they  scarcely 
realize  it  in  their  attempt  to  emulate  his  splendid  success. 
Others  had  no  pronounced  temperament  of  their  own,  but 
followed  slavishly,  missing  the  point  from  mere  lack  of 
insight.  Such  men  are  Taddeo  Gaddi  and  Giottino,  or 
"lesser  Giotto,"  as  we  may  perhaps  translate  the  nickname. 
It  is  instructive  to  compare  Giottino 's  Crucifixion  with  that 
of  Giotto.  Everybody  lines  up  on  the  front  of  the  stage  and 
looks,  not  at  the  Christ,  but  at  the  audience,  which  the  second 
rate  painter  can  never  forget.  The  action  loses  all  sincerity, 
all  cleverness,  all  dramatic  power.  The  same  holds  of  Taddeo 
Gaddi's  Presentation  of  the  Virgin,  as  compared  with 
Giotto's  treatment  of  the  same  theme.  The  Temple  is  more 
ambitious,  the  setting  more  ample,  but  the  action  is  sub- 
ordinated, hollow  and  insincere.  But  obvious  as  are  these 
differences,  yet  a  distant  glimpse  of  almost  any  wall  painted 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  and  the  bright  color,  the  freer 
grouping,  and  the  livelier  incident  remind  us  of  Giotto.  It 
was  a  Giotto  century. 

79 


8o  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


But  like  all  things  else,  the  Giotto  century  came  to  an  end. 
If  we  gaze  upon  some  wall  painted  in  the  last  years  of  this 
century,  it  no  longer  closely  resembles  the  work  of  Giotto. 
The  colors  are  changed,  not  without  loss,  if  we  compare  them 
with  the  exquisite  harmonies  in  pink  and  blue  which  greet 
us  as  we  gaze  upon  the  Giotto  chapels  of  Santa  Croce  from 
some  point  far  down  the  nave.  They  are  soberer  now,  which 
of  course  means  duller  and  less  pleasing  to  the  distant  view, 
but  perhaps  they  are  more  like  the  color  of  the  real  people 
and  things  about  them.  The  pictures,  too,  are  deeper  than 
Giotto's,  and  give  us  a  feelirg  that  the  characters  and  incidents 
have  much  more  room  at  their  disposal,  which  reminds  us 
that  Giotto's  pictures  seldom  seem  to  be  more  than  a  couple 
of  yards  deep,  so  that  in  comparison  with  the  later  pictures 
they  appear  almost  like  flat  decorations.  Finally,  these 
later  painters  aspire  to  greater  realism  in  the  way  of  acces- 
sories. Never  would  they  be  content  with  a  mere  hint  at  a 
temple,  like  that  in  Giotto's  Presentation  of  the  Virgin,  or 
with  such  symbols  of  mountains  as  those  in  his  Flight  into 
Egypt.  Real  buildings,  real  mountains,  and  real  trees  are 
a  part  of  their  program.  All  these  changes  may  be  summed 
up  in  one  word,  realism.  All  beings  and  objects  that  are 
represented  must  have  their  real  character  and  be  seen  in 
their  proper  relations,  a  perfectly  logical  extension  of  Giotto's 
program,  but  one  whose  value  to  art  was  perhaps  too  hastily 
assumed.  This  larger  program  required  a  larger  stage  for 
its  enactment.  The  room  of  all  outdoors  was  necessary  for 
a  program  which  embraced  all  nature.  As  we  approach  the 
end  of  the  Giotto  century,  therefore,  we  find  the  painters 
struggling  with  the  problems  of  perspective  and  endeavoring 
to  deepen  their  picture.  We  find  them  also  abandoning  the 
bright  color  which  Giotto  had  made  such  a  delight,  and 
painting  in  duller  hues,  for  nature's  colors  are  not  bright,  for 
the  most  part,  and  he  who  would  reproduce  her  faithfully 
must  content  himself  with  soberer  colors. 


The  Larger  Vision  8i 

The  aims  and  attainments  of  art  toward  the  year  1400  may- 
best  be  studied  in  the  works  of  Masolino,  or  Thomas  the  Less, 
as  we  may  perhaps  translate  the  name.  We  have  in  fact 
to  do  with  a  man  of  small  caliber  who  registers  rather  the 
level  of  the  current  on  which  he  is  borne  along  than  the 
independent  level  of  personal  genius.  We  find  his  work  in 
Rome,  in  a  little  town  of  Northern  Italy,  and  in  the  Bran- 
cacci  Chapel  of  the  Carmine  in  Florence,  a  chapel  later  to  be 
exalted  by  the  genius  of  another  Thomas  to  the  level  of 
Giotto's  chapel  in  Padua  and  Michelangelo's  chapel  in  Rome. 
The  Feast  of  Herod  (B  130)  and  the  Raising  of  Tabitha  are 
typical  both  of  the  painter  and  of  the  time.  Their  striking 
characteristic  is  perspective,  which  is  sometimes  more  ambi- 
tious than  purposeful.  City  streets  and  buildings  of  various 
sorts  are  introduced,  seemingly  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
suggest  space,  the  need  of  which  is  not  always  urgent.  Con- 
trasting these  paintings  with  the  work  of  Giotto,  who  never 
represented  unnecessary  space  any  more  than  he  did  imneces- 
sary  figures,  we  see  clearly  what  the  artists  of  the  time  were 
interested  in. 

If  now  we  inquire  by  what  means  Masolino  gives  the 
impression  of  distance  or  space,  we  discover  that  the  science 
of  perspective  was  curiously  one  sided.  Our  impression  of 
distance  in  nature  comes  from  two  sources.  The  first  is  the 
convergence  of  the  lines  of  vision.  When  we  look  down  a 
railroad  track,  the  rails  seem  to  converge,  and  we  judge  of 
distance  by  the  amount  of  this  convergence.  The  same 
principle  applies  when  we  see  objects  of  fairly  known  size 
at  varying  distances.  A  man  at  a  distance  of  a  hundred 
yards  makes  a  much  smaller  image  upon  our  retina  than  one 
at  a  distance  of  ten  yards,  and  we  can  measure  the  relative 
distance  of  the  one  and  the  other  by  taking  account  of  this 
difference.  Conversely,  in  painting  a  picture,  where  all 
objects,  near  and  remote,  must  be  represented  upon  a  single 
canvas,  the  nearer  figures  must  be  represented  larger  and  the 


The  Larger  Vision  83 

remoter  figures  smaller,  if  they  are  to  make  their  proper 
impression  upon  the  eye.  The  art  of  so  representing  them  is 
the  art  of  linear  perspective. 

But  distance  affects  our  vision  in  other  ways  which  under 
certain  circumstances  become  more  important.  Thus,  a 
man  at  a  distance  of  ten  yards  is  seen  not  only  on  a  larger 
scale  but  more  distinctly.  We  could  distinguish  the  cut  of 
his  coat,  perhaps  even  the  kind  of  buttons  upon  it.  At  a 
distance  of  a  hundred  yards  we  could  descry  no  buttons  at 
all,  and  all  other  details  would  be  blurred  and  indistinct. 
This  is  due,  not  merely  to  their  minuteness,  but  to  the  obscur- 
ing effect  of  the  atmosphere  which  is  not  altogether  trans- 
parent. Indistinctness  is  therefore  another  suggestion  and 
measure  of  distance,  usually  quite  in  harmony  with  that  of 
size  or  convergence,  but  in  some  cases  almost  our  sole  reliance, 
as  in  distant  landscapes,  where,  not  knowing  anything  about 
the  size  of  the  various  hills,  we  judge  of  their  distance  almost 
solely  by  the  atmospheric  haze,  which  not  only  obscures 
detail  but  covers  all  with  a  mantle  of  blue  which  is  the  atmos- 
phere's own  color.  The  representation  of  this  opacity  and 
color  of  the  atmosphere  as  modifying  the  appearance  of  all 
objects  seen  through  it,  is  the  art  of  aerial  or  atmospheric 
perspective. 

It  will  be  apparent  at  a  glance  that  both  these  are  necessary 
to  the  correct  representation  of  nature,  but  that  their  relative 
importance  varies  greatly  according  to  the  distance  represented. 
The  blurring  effect  of  distance  is  noticeable  even  in  the  range 
of  an  ordinary  room,  for  you  can  see  the  pattern  of  the  wall 
paper  on  the  wall  near  you,  much  more  distinctly  than  on  the 
wall  opposite,  but  the  familiar  size  of  all  the  objects,  the 
regular  lines  of  floor  and  ceiling,  and  so  forth,  cause  us  to  rely 
much  more  upon  linear  perspective  in  such  cases.  On  the 
other  hand,  for  distant  landscape  effects,  while  a  certain 
gradation  in  size  is  indispensable,  we  do  in  fact  rely  primarily 
upon  atmospheric  haze  and  color  for  our  impression  of  dis- 


84  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

tance,  and  atmospheric  perspective  becomes  relatively 
important. 

It  has  already  been  noted  that  Giotto's  pictures  do  not 
attempt  to  represent  a  depth  of  more  than  a  yard  or  two.  In 
such  a  space  atmospheric  perspective  had  no  appreciable 
importance.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Giotto  seems  never  to  have 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  Usually  we  do  not  miss  it,  but  in 
exceptional  cases  like  the  Flight  into  Egypt,  the  lack  of  it  is 
grotesquely  apparent  in  the  mountains  which  dwindle  into 
insignificant  symbols  within  arm's  reach  instead  of  looming 
large  in  a  distant  background,  as  they  should  do.  But  bar- 
ring a  few  rare  exceptions  of  this  sort  it  is  hardly  an  exag- 
geration to  say  that  linear  perspective  is  all  that  Giotto  needs. 

It  will  be  at  once  apparent,  however,  that  with  the  more 
ambitious  program  which  we  are  now  considering,  atmos- 
pheric perspective  becomes  important.  Masolino  is  obviously 
embarrassed  to  make  his  greater  spaces  seem  natural,  espe- 
cially when^he  has  landscape  backgrounds,  but  he  never  guesses 
the  true  remedy.  This  is  curiously  illustrated  in  his  Feast 
of  Herod,  where,  in  accord  with  the  practice  of  the  early 
Renaissance,  he  wishes  to  represent  the  burial  of  the  martyred 
Baptist  in  the  remote  background,  and  so  requires  a  back- 
ground of  far  reaching  mountain  landscape.  His  mountain, 
however,  refuses  to  stay  in  the  background  where  it  belongs, 
not  being  properly  dimmed  and  blued,  and  so,  to  restrain  its 
intrusiveness  he  paints  in  front  of  it  a  long  receding  arcade 
whose  converging  lines  and  diminishing  arches  speak  to  us 
convincingly  of  the  distance  which  our  sharply  detailed 
mountain  seeks  in  vain  to  deny.  Nothing  could  better 
illustrate  at  once  our  artist's  weakness  and  his  consciousness 
of  it.  In  this  Masolino  is  representative  of  his  time.  Art 
knew  nothing  of  atmospheric  perspective. 

And,  broadly  speaking,  this  remained  the  limitation  of 
Italian  art.  It  mastered  the  subtleties  of  linear  perspective 
as  they  had  never  been  mastered  before  and  have  never  been 


The  Larger  Vision  85 


surpassed  since.  But  even  a  Ghirlandajo,  heir  of  all  the  ages 
and  living  in  the  fulness  of  time,  could  build  a  long,  meaning- 
less wall  rimning  back  into  his  landscape  to  show  by  its  con- 
verging lines  how  deep  the  picture  was,  while  Perugino  and 
the  great  Raphael  would  pave  acres  of  open  space  with  square 
blocks  of  marble  to  give  them  a  chance  at  the  indispensable 
linear  perspective.  It  is  due  to  this  same  lack  that  we  have 
the  perpendicular  landscapes  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  and  Michel- 
angelo's stout  assertion  that  landscapes  had  no  place  in  art. 
It  is  due  to  this  same  limitation  that  the  Italian  art  remained 
from  first  to  last  a  study  of  the  human  figure,  and  the  infinite 
possibilities  of  appeal  to  both  sense  and  spirit,  through  the 
interpretation  of  nature  in  terms  of  color  and  light,  remained 
closed  to  the  Italian  painters.  They  were  unable  to  follow 
into  this  larger  world  the  one  man  who  for  a  brief  moment 
opened  wide  the  door. 

That  man  was  Masaccio.  Like  Masolino,  he  was  chris- 
tened Tommaso  or  Thomas.  This  was  shortened  to  Maso, 
and  in  turn  lengthened  to  Masaccio  by  the  addition  of  a 
descriptive  and  not  very  complimentary  ending.  ''Great 
hulking  Tom,"  Browning  calls  him,  illustrating  by  this 
awkward  means  the  ineptitude  of  our  English  tongue  for 
those  finer  shadings  of  thought  for  which  the  Italian  is 
famous.  Born  in  1402,  his  work  in  the  Brancacci  Chapel 
seems  to  have  terminated  in  1428,  when  at  the  early  age  of 
twenty-six  his  fame  called  him  to  Rome.  He  is  never  again 
heard  of.  The  works  in  Rome  attributed  to  him  are  unques- 
tionably by  another  hand,  and  we  may  safely  assume  that 
he  never  reached  that  city.  Somewhere,  perhaps  in  the 
delirium  of  fever,  in  a  wayside  cottage,  or  stricken  by  a 
robber's  hand,  big  Tom's  luminous  spirit  went  out  in  darkness, 
leaving  men  to  wonder  what  it  was  that  had  made  it  so  bright. 
Even  farther  an  unkind  fate  pursued  him,  for  the  church  in 
which  he  had  begun  his  work  never  to  be  completed,  was  later 
destroyed  by  fire,  and  the  Chapel  was  preserved  not  without 


86  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

serious  defacement  of  his  painting.  It  is  through  a  veil 
which  has  darkened  with  the  years  that  we  gaze  upon  the 
larger  vision  of  Masaccio. 

The  frescoes  in  the  Brancacci  Chapel  are  not  the  only  works 
attributed  to  Masaccio,  but  they  are  so  far  the  most  important 
that  the  rest  may  be  ignored.  The  most  prominent  is  the 
Tribute  Money  (B  140),  a  masterly  work  admiringly  studied 
and  imitated  by  Raphael  a  century  later.  As  a  composition  it 
seems  at  first  not.  unlike  Giotto's,  though  a  second  glance 
will  disclose  in  it  the  clear  beginning  of  that  complex  com- 
position in  two  dimensions  of  which  Giotto  knew  nothing, 
and  which  Raphael  was  later  to  make  his  chief  claim  to 
fame.  This  is  not  the  place,  however,  to  penetrate  into  so 
recondite  a  subject.  We  will  simply  remember  it  as  one 
more  of  those  remarkable  anticipations  of  later  achievement 
of  which  so  many  are  to  be  placed  to  his  credit.  It  is  sufficient 
to  note  the  splendid  group  of  men  among  whom  the  Master 
is  so  easily  first,  not  by  attribute  or  outward  sign,  but  by 
inner  character.  We  have  here  the  second  really  significant 
study  of  the  Christ,  and  ItaUan  art  has  but  one  more  in  store 
for  us. 

The  story  is  famiUar.  Peter  comes  to  Jesus  and  tells  him 
that  the  tax-gatherer  has  demanded  payment  of  the  poll  tax 
and  asks  for  instructions.  Jesus,  after  taking  advantage  of 
the  incident  as  usual,  for  his  higher  purpose,  tells  Peter  to 
catch  a  fish,  and  he  will  find  a  coin  in  its  mouth  which  he  may 
give  to  the  tax-gatherer  for  them  both.  In  the  center  we 
see  the  central  incident,  including  the  instructions  to  Peter, 
which  the  latter  follows  by  the  motion  of  his  hand.  In  the 
left  background  we  see  Peter  catching  the  fish,  and  in  the 
right  foreground  again,  he  is  giving  the  coin  to  the  tax-gath- 
erer. Thus  far  nothing  is  remarkable,  save  general  excellence, 
the  dignity  and  naturalness  of  the  figures  which  far  surpass 
Giotto's,  and  the  fairly  clear  narration,  in  which,  however, 
Giotto  may  claim  superiority.    In  some  particulars  Masaccio 


88  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

at  first  seems  to  have  fallen  below  his  great  predecessor,  for 
in  this  picture  he  gives  us  three  Peters  and  two  tax-gatherers, 
a  thing  which  the  logical  Giotto,  with  all  his  story-telling 
necessities,  had  refused  to  do.  But  Masaccio's  is  a  larger 
logic.  He  seems  to  realize  that  merely  as  a  picture,  three 
Peters  are  just  as  serviceable  as  Peter,  James  and  John,  while 
as  a  story,  involving  successive  incidents,  we  are  compelled 
to  take  the  picture  part  by  part,  and  so  these  simultaneous 
Peters  really  become  successive  Peters,  and  disturb  us  no 
more  than  do  the  successive  mental  pictures  which  are  evoked 
in  verbal  story-telling  by  the  repetition  of  the  name.  There 
is  something  to  Giotto's  objection,  but  the  true  conclusion 
to  be  drawn  from  it  is  that  painting  should  cease  to  tell  stories 
altogether,  and  this  is  the  conclusion  that  the  painters  always 
come  to  in  the  end.  But  if  we  must  have  stories,  Masaccio 
was  right  in  returning  to  the  early  practice  which  Giotto  had 
abandoned,  but  which  was  now  to  endure  down  to  the  end 
of  story-telling  in  Italian  painting.  We  even  find  this 
repetition  in  Michelangelo's  great  ceiling. 

It  is  not  till  we  turn  from  the  figures  and  the  story  to  the 
setting,  that  we  discover  the  first  of  Masaccio's  great  dis- 
coveries, atmospheric  perspective.  These  hills  and  mountains, 
half  defaced  by  time  and  the  great  conflagration,  nevertheless 
unmistakably  loom  large  and  distant,  as  they  should,  upon 
the  horizon.  Such  things  are  so  commonplace  in  our  day, 
so  utterly  a  matter  of  course  with  us,  and  the  bias  of  our 
partial  observation  is  so  overwhelmingly  in  favor  of  persons 
rather  than  inanimate  things,  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
give  due  credit  to  an  achievement  which  is  not  only  indispen- 
sable to  the  larger  purposes  of  art,  but  which  is  the  more 
difficult  because  of  this  very  bias.  Like  ourselves,  the  artist 
is  apt  to  be  more  interested  in  the  human  than  in  anything 
else.  Thus,  Ghirlandajo  is  a  minute  observer  of  the  human 
figure,  but  he  paints  an  ox  so  that  save  for  the  horns  you 
might  mistake  it  for  a  horse.     For  such  subtleties  as  atmos- 


The  Larger  Vision  89 


pheric  haze  and  color  he  had  no  appreciation  whatever. 
The  bias  of  his  patrons  of  course  tended  to  confirm  his  own. 
How  much  more  all  this  in  the  case  of  Masaccio.  Yet  he, 
without  a  shadow  of  precedent,  and  without  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  slightest  answering  appreciation,  sees  earth  and 
sky  in  their  true  mystery,  and  measures  them  with  the 
measuring  rod  by  which  God  has  laid  off  the  span  of  the 
heavens. 

This,  however,  is  only  a  beginning.  In  nothing  had  the 
deepening  interest  of  the  painters  been  more  apparent  than 
in  the  human  figure,  and  of  late,  in  the  nude  figure,  in- 
fluenced, no  doubt,  by  the  reviving  study  of  the  ancient 
sculpture.  To  this  difficult  problem  Giotto  had  made  no 
contribution.  He  represents  the  nude  only  when  he  must, 
as  in  the  Crucifixion,  and  then  but  partially  and  feebly. 
Masolino,  however,  is  more  ambitious,  as  witness  the  Temp- 
tation (B  135),  a  subject  deliberately  chosen,  it  would 
seem,  because  it  gave  an  opportunity  to  represent  the  nude, 
for  it  has  no  connection  with  the  other  subjects  which  he 
treats.  His  drawing  is  fairly  correct  as  regards  proportions, 
shapes,  and  so  forth,  but  it  will  be  a  susceptible  spirit  that 
is  inspired  by  Masolino's  picture.  Two  more  inexpressive 
figures  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  There  is  no  sug- 
gestion of  action  or  life  or  of  the  inner  structure  which  these 
imply. 

This  leads  us  to  the  reflection  that  drawing,  modeling,  and 
all  kindred  forms  of  expression  may  be  correct  without  being 
good.  Correct  drawing  is  drawing  which  accurately  repre- 
sents proportion  and  shape.  Good  drawing,  expressive  draw- 
ing, drawing  that  vividly  suggests  life,  action  and  passion, 
is  not  always  secured  by  correct  proportion  and  shape.  It 
may  even  be  secured  without  it.  We  may  perhaps  add  that 
mere  correctness  is  in  itself  but  remotely  related  to  the  art 
faculty.  It  is  largely  a  matter  of  drill  and  practice,  and 
belongs  rather  to  the  science  of  art  than  to  art  itself.     But 


B  135,  Adam  and  Eve  in  Eden. 

Brancacci  Chapel,  Carmine,  Florence. 

Masolino,  1383-1447. 


The  Larger  Vision  91 

expressive  drawing,  that  is,  the  expression  of  action,  passion 
and  true  meaning,  through  drawing,  is  something  which  lies 
much  closer  to  the  inspired  imagination,  which  is  the  true 
source  of  art.  No  artist  is  fully  equipped  for  his  work  who 
has  not  learned  to  draw  correctly,  and  the  teacher  of  drawing 
whose  function  it  is  to  thus  equip  him,  soon  comes  to  regard 
this  accomplishment  as  all  important,  even  the  very  essence 
of  art  itself.  But  drawing  is  related  to  art  in  much  the  same 
way  that  rhetoric  is  to  literature.  There  have  been  great 
writers  who  have  used  mLxed  figures  and  violated  other 
wholesome  laws  of  the  art,  as  there  have  been  others  who  have 
been  faultless  in  these  matters  without  winning  fame  or 
recognition.  There  is  an  observable  tendency  on  the  part 
of  great  artists  to  show  a  certain  contempt  for  mere  accuracy. 
We  observe  inaccurate  drawing  not  merely  in  Giotto,  whose 
skill  was  undoubtedly  insufficient,  but  even  in  passed  masters 
of  the  art  like  Botticelli  and  Michelangelo  himself,  whose 
deviations  from  nature  are  certainly  intentional,  and  obey 
only  the  higher  law  of  his  own  imagination.  This  higher 
law  is  the  stumbling  block  of  the  art  hack  and  the  studio 
pedagogue  who  see  in  these  deviations  from  nature's  common- 
places only  a  thing  to  censure,  as  also  of  the  careless  student 
who  seeks  in  them  a  warrant  for  his  own  lawlessness  and 
undisciplined  caprice. 

Masolino's  drawing  is  measurably  accurate,  but  inexpres- 
sive and  worthless  as  art.  If  we  turn  now  to  Masaccio's 
Expulsion  from  Eden  (B  139),  we  have  an  illustration  of  that 
other  excellence  which  we  have  been  considering.  The  figures 
of  Adam  and  Eve  are  not  altogether  accurate.  The  veriest 
novice  will  notice  the  crooked  leg  of  Adam.  He  may  even, 
in  complacency  over  his  discovery,  be  quite  superior  to 
further  investigation.  But  despite  these  inaccuracies,  plainly 
mere  inadvertence  on  the  part  of  a  mind  absorbed  in  higher 
things,  these  figures  are  the  first  example  of  great  drawing  in 
Christian  art.    They  pulse  with  life  and  throb  with  passionate 


B  139,  Expulsion  from  Eden.    Broncacci  Chapel, 
Carmine,  Florence.   Masaccio,  1401  ?-1428? 


The  Larger  Vision  93 

action.  In  the  impetuosity  of  his  inspired  feeling  the  artist 
has  drawn  a  careless  line  or  two,  but  the  great  drama  is  por- 
trayed with  startling  intensity  and  truth.  Notice  the 
amazing  suggestiveness  of  the  Adam  who  hides  his  face  in 
his  hands,  to  suggest  a  grief  which  no  art  can  express.  Notice 
finally  the  angel,  supreme  among  the  angelic  throng  with 
which  the  art  of  Italy  has  enriched  the  imagination  of  the 
world.  Underneath  the  inexorableness  which  speaks  of  the 
divine  decrees  there  is  the  divine  compassion  which  rescues 
tragedy  from  despair. 

Closely  akin  to  this  new  eloquence  with  which  Masaccio 
endued  the  human  figure  is  the  third  characteristic  which 
glorifies  his  art.  Up  to  this  time  we  have  seen  that  art,  even 
in  the  hands  of  so  great  an  artist  as  Giotto,  is  essentially 
objective.  If  a  story  is  told,  we  see  the  act  and  the  actors, 
but  we  are  left  to  infer  their  feelings  save  in  rare  instances 
and  to  a  slight  degree.  This  means  that  we  see  the  outside 
of  the  story,  and  the  conflict  of  passions  within,  which  are 
its  essence,  we  are  left  to  infer.  Such  art  is  anecdotal  rather 
than  dramatic.  The  essence  of  the  dramatic  is  the  inter- 
pretation of  incident  in  terms  of  the  feelings  which  cause  it 
and  which  are  caused  by  it.  This  is  infinitely  deeper  and 
truer  than  any  outside  interpretation  can  ever  be,  but  it  is 
correspondingly  more  difficult  both  to  see  and  to  express. 
Whether  it  is  well  for  painting  to  venture  into  this  subjective 
field  is  a  much  mooted  question.  Probably  the  subjective 
is  more  appropriate  to  Browning's  art  than  to  that  of  Masaccio, 
but  the  Renaissance  was  less  clear  in  its  perception  of  the 
limits  of  the  several  arts,  than  it  was  rich  in  art  impulse.  In 
any  case,  this  delving  into  the  thoughts  and  intents  of  the 
heart  was  very  much  in  line  with  the  avowed  program  of  the 
Renaissance,  which  was  to  know  and  reveal  the  uttermost 
truth  about  man. 

It  will  be  apparent  at  a  glance  that  the  Expulsion  from 
Eden  is  much  more  a  representation  of  passion  than  of  action. 


94  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

The  whole  emphasis  has  shifted,  and  we  instinctively  think 
of  the  passion  as  the  principal  thing. 

Another  striking  example  is  found  in  a  third  picture  by 
Masaccio  in  this  same  chapel,  St.  Peter  baptizing  the  Pagans 
(B  144).  The  theme  is  hackneyed,  and  Peter  has  no  peculiar 
excellence  beyond  that  noted  earlier.  Our  attention  is  not 
greatly  arrested  by  the  youth  standing  in  the  water,  upon 
whose  head  the  water  of  baptism  is  poured.  But  behind  stands 
another  youth,  naked  and  waiting  his  turn.  As  he  waits, 
he  folds  his  arms  and  cowers  in  an  unmistakable  shiver, 
suggestive  alike  of  cold  and  of  nervous  excitement.  As  a 
part  of  the  action  this  is  nothing ;  as  a  revelation  of  feeling 
it  is  supremely  expressive.  Instantly  we  feel  that  these 
figures  are* not  dummies  to  whom  things  happen  from  without, 
but  they  are  human  beings  like  ourselves  in  whose  inner 
spirit  is  enacted  the  drama  of  life. 

It  is  interesting  to  speculate  as  to  what  Florentine  art 
might  have  become  if  this  marvellous  youth,  instead  of  dying 
at  the  very  threshold  of  opportunity  had  lived  like  Michel- 
angelo through  three  generations  of  art  activity.  That  he 
would  have  profoundly  modified  its  development  cannot  for 
a  moment  be  doubted,  but  just  how  or  how  far,  it  is  difficult 
to  estimate.  That  he  would  have  anticipated  the  dramatic 
style  and  the  wonderful  subjective  analysis  of  Leonardo  by 
half  a  century  is  all  but  certain.  But  that  he  would  have 
opened  the  eyes  of  artists  to  the  marvellous  beauty  of  the 
Tuscan  landscape,  perhaps  even  discovering  its  paramount 
importance  in  painting,  a  service  which  Leonardo  and  Michel- 
angelo were  quite  unable  to  perform,  is  not  among  the  impos- 
sibilities. If  so,  he  would  have  changed  the  destiny  of  art. 
As  it  is,  he  stands  midway  between  Giotto  and  Michelangelo, 
these  two  allotted  long  years  for  their  task,  but  he,  dropping 
the  pen  he  had  but  taken,  and  leaving  it  to  feebler  hands 
to  write  Italy's  message  in  the  great  book,  before  Michel- 
angelo should  write  "Finis"  upon  the  pages. 


B  144,  St.  Peter  Baptizing  the  Pagans.    Brancacei  Chapel, 
Carmine,  Florence.    Masaccio,  1401?-1428? 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  PROTEST  OF  FAITH 


From  Cimabue  to  Masaccio  we  have  traced  the  evolution 
of  art  consistently  toward  its  chosen  goal  of  realism.  We 
have  seen  its  abandonment  of  mosaic,  its  surrender  of  gold 
and  decorative  pattern,  its  relinquishment  of  symmetry  and 
even  of  bright  color,  all  in  the  interest  of  naturalness.  In 
that  same  interest,  we  have  seen  the  freer  composition,  the 
deepening  perspective,  the  more  realistic  drawing,  the  impor- 
tation of  relevant  but  novel  incident,  and  finally  the  delving 
into  the  inner  sanctuary  of  life  and  the  exposure  of  its  inner- 
most secrets.  The  movement  was  all  one  way.  We  have 
noted  no  exception,  no  protest. 

But  there  was  both  exception  and  protest.  We  find  them 
in  Florence,  where  modernism  is  overwhelmingly  in  the 
ascendant.  We  find  them  much  more  in  Siena  where  semi- 
annihilation  by  the  great  plague  of  1348  and  hopeless  sub- 
ordination to  Florence,  strengthened  a  naturally  conservative 
tendency.  During  the  period  of  Florentine  prosperity, 
Sienese  artists  frequently  found  employment  in  Florence,  and 
Florentine  artists  were  not  wanting  whose  ideals  were  con- 
genial to  the  Sienese  if  not  directly  influenced  by  them. 
Throughout  the  Giotto  century,  however,  there  seems  to 
have  been  no  conscious  conflict  of  principle  between  the  two 
schools.  There  were  differences,  it  was  clear,  but  they 
seemed  matters  of  taste  rather  than  of  principle.  Thus, 
the  Sienese  usually  painted  in  dark  and  warm  tones,  while 
the  Florentines,  even  those  who  were  in  sympathy  with 
Siena,  preferred  the  light  and  cheerful  tones  of  Giotto.     But 

96 


The  Protest  of  Faith  97 

neither  color  scheme  did  or  could  plead  nature  as  its  warrant, 
and  so  with  other  differences,  whatever  they  might  be.  We 
shall  hardly  understand  the  double  mind  of  this  period  unless 
we  think  of  it  as  unconscious  of  its  own  contradictions. 
Much  of  this  seeming  unity  was  doubtless  due  to  the  genial 
greatness  of  Giotto,  whose  leadership  was  so  congenial  that 
even  those  most  opposed  to  him  in  temperament  and  prin- 
ciple seem  to  have  thought  of  themselves  as  loyal  followers. 
The  opposition  of  purpose,  however,  was  not  the  less  real. 

Florence  fortunately  furnishes  us  perfect  examples  of  the 
conservative  art  of  the  Giotto  century,  both  of  the  Sienese 
and  the  Florentine  sort.  Both  are  contained  within  the 
precincts  of  that  wonderful  old  church,  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
where  we  have  already  found  the  Rucellai  Madonna.  For  the 
masterpiece  of  the  Sienese,  we  must  pass  through  the  side 
door  into  the  great  cloister  and  enter  the  old  Chapter  House, 
later  known  as  the  Spanish  Chapel.  It  is  covered  with 
Sienese  paintings  of  differing  merit,  of  which  we  will  take  the 
two  great  side  walls  as  being  best  and  most  significant.  The 
wall  on  the  left  represents  the  glorification  of  Saint  Thomas 
Aquinas  (B  105) ,  the  great  Dominican  theologian.  High  in  the 
arched  top  of  the  great  wall  sits  the  saint  in  an  imposing  chair, 
while  on  either  side,  in  a  straight  row,  sit  the  worthies  of  the 
church,  among  whom  Moses  is  recognized  by  his  flame-like 
horns.  Above  these  worthies,  symmetrically  grouped,  are 
the  seven  cardinal  virtues  in  the  form  of  angels,  while  beneath 
the  feet  of  the  saint  sit  the  three  arch-heretics,  Arius,  Sabellius 
and  Averrhoes,  whom  Saint  Thomas  was  supposed  to  have 
confounded  by  his  reasoning.  Lower  down,  in  a  long  row 
across  the  great  wall,  in  splendid  Gothic  chairs  or  stalls,  sit 
female  figures  representing  the  arts  and  sciences  of  the  day, 
while  below  them  sit  male  figures,  historical  or  legendary 
characters,  who  are  supposed  to  have  distinguished  them- 
selves in  the  art  or  science  in  question.  The  identity  is 
established  through  more  or  less  recognizable  attributes  or 


The  Protest  of  Faith  99 

symbols,  music  by  the  little  organ,  architecture  by  the  square, 
and  so  forth.  Besides  these  more  obvious  symbols,  the  wall 
is  packed  with  lesser  symbols,  especially  in  the  medallion 
decorations  of  the  chairs,  symbols  largely  taken  from  Dante, 
the  interpretation  of  which  belongs  to  literature  rather  than 
to  art. 

The  dominant  characteristic  of  this  art  is  instantly  apparent. 
It  is  decorative.  Everywhere  is  symmetry,  and  nowhere  is 
action  or  life.  In  the  drawing  of  the  figures  the  artist  has 
unquestionably  been  influenced  by  the  modern  art.  Their 
attitudes,  too,  are  more  varied  than  in  the  great  mosaics, 
and  show  a  certain  amount  of  spontaneity.  But  this  touch 
of  modernism  is  neither  profound  nor  significant.  The  prin- 
ciple on  which  the  whole  composition  is  based  is  that  of 
symmetry  and  decorative  arrangement.  The  painting  is,  in 
so  far,  wholly  mediaeval  in  spirit.  As  a  decoration  it  is 
magnificent.  The  dignified  worthies  above,  the  graceful 
winged  virtues,  the  fair  female  forms  below,  above  all,  the 
splendid  band  of  Gothic  stalls,  make  a  wall  which  some  have 
called  the  most  beautiful  in  Italy. 

Next  to  this  decorative  tendency,  we  must  note  the  redun- 
dant symbolism.  This,  too,  we  recall  as  a  mediaeval  charac- 
teristic. It  would  be  difiicult,  however,  to  find  a  Florentine 
w^ork  of  any  period  so  packed  with  symbolism  as  this.  We  shall 
notice  this  more  plainly  if  we  turn  to  the  opposite  wall,  the 
Church  Militant  (B  107) .  The  church,  of  course,  is  symbolized 
by  a  church  building  in  which  we  easily  recognize  the  great 
cathedral ,  then  building.  Alongside  stands  an  imposing  group 
in  which  we  recognize  the  Pope  and  the  Emperor  with  crozier 
and  sword,  theoretical  joint  rulers  over  the  lives  and  con- 
sciences of  men.  Other  figures  are  alleged  by  tradition,  let 
us  hope  erroneously,  to  be  portraits  of  contemporary  painters. 
The  day  when  complacent  egotism  was  to  undermine  the 
sincerity  of  religious  art,  was,  for  the  most  part,  still  remote. 
In  front  of  these  figures  is  a  little  platform  on  which  rest  a 


The  Protest  of  Faith       '  loi 

couple  of  unplausible  sheep,  guarded  by  two  spotted  dogs, 
black  and  white,  while  other  similar  dogs  are  making  short 
shrift  of  some  grey  wolves  near  by.  This,  we  are  told, 
represents  an  old  pun  at  first  leveled  against  the  Dominicans 
but  afterw^ard  taken  by  them  in  good  part.  Their  name, 
in  Latin,  Dominicanes,  if  cut  in  two,  makes  two  Latin  words, 
Domini-Canes,  Dogs  of  the  Lord.  As  the  order  was  formed 
to  suppress  heresy,  they  were  quick  to  retort  that  they  were 
indeed  the  dogs  set  to  guard  the  Lord's  sheep  from  the  here- 
tics, the  wolves.  Their  black  and  white  garments  suggest 
the  spotted  dog  which  we  see  in  the  picture.  Going  farther, 
we  see  the  great  Dominican  arguing  wath  heretics  who  are 
plainly  confounded  by  his  citations  from  Holy  Writ,  while 
farther  still,  another  is  preaching  to  the  people  who  show  a 
gratifying  enthusiasm.  Our  pathway  now  turns  back  upon 
itself  and  meanders  upward  across  the  wall  to  a  point  where 
St.  Dominic  of  colossal  size  points  out  to  a  crowd  of  tiny  folk 
the  way  to  the  gate  of  Heaven  where  St.  Peter  stands  with 
his  keys.  St.  Peter  again  is  a  colossus,  but  as  these  tiny  folk 
pass  through  the  gate,  they  suddenly  become  as  large  as 
Peter. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  pursue  farther  this  puzzle  which  may 
amuse  the  curious.  It  is  sufficient  to  note  that  this  sym- 
bolism is  as  arbitrary  as  it  is  voluminous,  and  that  in  this  case 
all  symmetry  and  other  decorative  quality  is  sacrificed  to  it. 
This  extravagant  use  of  symbolism,  appealing  to  the  mind 
rather  than  to  the  feeling,  and  subordinating  all  other  charac- 
teristics, we  may  call  the  didactic  in  art.  It  is  perhaps  the 
feeblest  of  all  aesthetic  elements.  It  continually  recurs  in 
later  art  in  the  form  of  allegory,  which,  however,  slowly 
emancipates  itself  from  symbolism,  that  is,  from  the  arbitrary 
meaning  which  is  peculiarly  its  own,  and  remains  merely  as  a 
graceful  and  meaningless  figure  study.  Such  are  Raphael's 
Prudence,  Force  and  Moderation  (C  169),  allegorical  now  only 
in  name,  without  a  sign  of  an  attribute  or  of  character  resem- 


I02  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

blance,  but  a  mere  study  in  beautiful  figures  and  graceful 
composition. 

Judging  by  these  two  examples,  —  and  they  are  fairly 
representative,  —  Sienese  art  during  this  Giotto  century  was 
essentially  mediaeval  art,  with  its  well  known  tendency  to 
symmetry  and  decoration,  and  with  an  exaggerated  and 
essentially  local  tendency  to  symbolism.  It  knows  nothing 
of  the  new  ideals  and  the  larger  program.  It  is  but  super- 
ficially modern. 

Different  and  yet  similar  is  the  splendid  wall  of  the  Strozzi 
Chapel  in  this  same  old  church,  to  which  we  now  return. 
Here  is  Orcagna's  Paradise  (B  83),  the  creation  of  one  of  the 
most  gifted  of  Giotto's  contemporaries,  aiid  the  highest  repre- 
sentative of  the  art  of  the  old  school.  High  in  the  center  of 
the  arch- topped  wall  sit  the  Christ  and  the  Madonna,  while 
on  either  side  in  serried  ranks  from  top  to  bottom  are  the 
glorified  spirits  whose  beauty  is  the  only  and  the  sufficient 
furnishing  of  Paradise. 

"  Where  loyal  hearts  and  true  stand  ever  in  the  light. 
All  rapture  through  and  through  in  God's  most  holy  sight." 

These  figures  are  not  like  those  of  a  later  time,  but  they  are 
certainly  not  less  beautiful.  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
any  other  picture  in  Italian  art  offers  so  many  beautiful  faces. 
The  artist,  too,  has  quite  succeeded  in  giving  them  the 
modern  and  lifelike  touch  which  allies  the  work  to  the  art  of 
Giotto.  Yet  in  their  straightness,  their  perfectly  formal 
arrangement,  their  absolute  symmetry  and  their  lack  of  all 
trace  of  perspective,  they  vie  with  the  mosaics  themselves 
in  their  loyalty  to  the  old  tradition.  We  may  describe  the 
whole  as  a  painting  in  mosaic  style,  done  in  Giotto  colors,  by 
an  artist  of  singular  dehcacy  and  taste. 

Why  did  Orcagna  choose  to  paint  in  this  style  ?  The  first 
suggestion  is  that  he  did  not  know  the  new  perspective  style, 
but  this  is  quickly  dispelled  by  a  glance  at  the  center  fore- 


B  83,  Paradise.    Strozzi  Chapel,  S.  Maria  Novella,  Florence. 
Andrea  Orcagna,  1308-1368. 


I04  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

ground,  where  are  represented  in  smaller  scale  a  large  number 
of  figures  in  unmistakable  perspective.  The  next  suggestion 
is  that  he  preferred  the  formal  and  flat  style  to  the  freer  and 
pictorial  manner  of  Giotto  because  of  its  decorative  superior- 
ity. There  is  much  reason  to  believe  that  Orcagna  did  prefer 
it  for  this  reason,  but  we  are  a  little  puzzled  that  he  should 
not  have  held  to  this  style  throughout.  There  is  a  marked 
distinction  between  this  group  in  the  lower  center,  which  is  not 
only  in  perspective,  but  is  free  and  irregular  in  arrangement, 
and  the  great  decorative  ranks  on  either  side.  The  reason 
cannot  be  merely  one  of  decoration,  for  the  center  of  the  wall 
does  not  differ  from  the  sides  in  this  respect.  The  reason  must 
rather  be  sought  in  the  subject.  Here  the  difference  is  clear. 
The  central  group  below  represents  earth  and  life  upon  it. 
Here  naturalness,  perspective  and  realism  seem  to  the  artist 
appropriate.  The  rest  of  the  picture  represents  Paradise,  and 
here  he  reverts  to  the  old  manner.  The  motive  which  lies 
back  of  this  conservatism  is  not  decoration,  but  religion. 
The  choice  is  no  accident.  It  rests  upon  a  principle  as  old  as 
history.  In  each  period  of  Egyptian  civilization  we  find 
the  priests  using  for  ceremonial  purposes  vessels  and  imple- 
ments which  had  been  in  vogue  for  other  purposes  in  the 
preceding  epoch.  The  early  picture  writing,  long  discarded 
for  practical  purposes  in  favor  of  the  easier  cursive  hand,  was 
retained  by  the  priests  as  hieroglyphs,  —  sacred  letters. 
When  the  Jews  had  passed  through  the  stone  age  and  the 
bronze  age  and  down  into  the  iron  age,  they  were  still  per- 
forming their  religious  ceremonies  with  stone  knives,  — 
sacred  knives.  When  Phidias  made  his  statue  of  Athena  in 
a  sincere  effort  to  deepen  and  exalt  the  religious  feeling  of  the 
Athenians,  he  draped  the  figure  in  an  old-fashioned  manner 
which  was  altogether  obsolete  except  for  religious  purposes. 
Each  recurring  effort  at  religious  revival  in  Greece  was  marked 
by  a  like  revival  of  obsolete  forms  of  art.  This  is  the  universal 
tendency  of  religion,  a  tendency  closely  identified  with  its 


The  Protest  of  Faith  105 

strength  and  its  value  to  men.  For  religion  is  essentially  a 
matter  of  feeling.  There  are  reasons  for  this  feeling,  of  course, 
but  the  feelings  are  not  mere  reasoning,  and  cannot  be  created 
by  mere  reasoning.  Now  it  is  characteristic  of  feelings, 
especially  of  those  which  are  stable  and  serve  the  great 
purpose  of  steadying  life,  that  they  grow  slowly  and  are  very 
tenaciously  attached  to  those  objects  or  customs  with  which 
they  have  long  been  associated.  There  is  nothing  intrin- 
sically sacred  about  stone  knives,  but  there  is  something 
sacred  about  old  knives  as  contrasted  with  new  ones.  The 
adoption  of  a  new  religion  may  operate  powerfully  to  change 
the  direction  of  art,  for  there  is  no  such  thing  as  destroying 
the  old  religion  without  breaking  these  long  standing  associa- 
tions of  art  and  custom.  The  real  explanation  of  the  rapid 
change  which  took  place  in  art  during  the  sixteenth  century 
is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  for  a  time  there  was,  in  the 
triumph  of  humanism,  something  very  like  the  adoption  of  a 
new  religion,  and  men  welcomed  the  changes  in  religion  which 
might  be  effected  by  innovations  in  art.  But  where  men 
have  been  sincerely  desirous  of  maintaining  existing  religious 
sentiment,  they  have  usually  shown  a  marked  reluctance  to 
break  with  tradition  in  art,  or  in  anything  else  with  which 
religious  sentiment  has  been  historically  associated. 

It  would  therefore  be  contrary  to  all  precedent  if  the 
innovations  of  Giotto  and  his  followers  did  not  find  opposi- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  religious  party.  That  this  opposition 
was  not  at  first  violent  or  even  conscious  does  not  change  its 
character.  Orcagna  cannot  bring  himself  to  represent  the 
celestial  forms  in  any  but  the  time-honored  manner,  though 
he  shows  himself  quite  as  much  a  master  of  the  new  method 
as  Giotto  himself.  It  is  not  that  flat  and  symmetrical 
decorations  represent  Paradise  more  correctly.  That  is  a 
thesis  that  he  would  hardly  have  defended.  But  devotion 
and  reverence  were  wonted  to  these  forms,  and  could  not  at 
once  adjust  themselves  to  new  ones.     What  one  of  us  would 


io6  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

care  to  see  an  archangel  armed  with  a  Mauser  rifle?  Yet 
save  in  the  matter  of  age  it  is  quite  as  appropriate  as  a  medi- 
ae val  sword. 

But  if  the  protest  of  faith  was  silent  and  half  unconscious 
in  the  days  of  Giotto,  it  could  not  remain  so  as  realism  scored 
its  dazzling  triumphs. 

As  the  new  program  became  so  overwhelmingly  apparent 
in  Masaccio's  art,  it  was  impossible  for  the  older  art  any 
longer  to  be  unconscious  of  its  danger.  Threatened  with 
destruction,  it  asserted  itself  in  passionate  protest.  For- 
tunately for  it  and  for  us,  it  is  represented  in  the  new  century 
by  one  of  the  most  gifted  painters  of  any  time.  Easily 
misunderstood,  frequently  disparaged  as  old-fashioned  and 
out  of  date,  Fra  Angelico  is,  after  all,  one  of  the  rarest  spirits 
that  art  has  ever  claimed  for  its  own.  A  monk)  he  represented 
in  very  deed  the  characteristics  that  were  so  universal  in 
theory  and  so  rare  in  practice.  It  was  an  age  that  felt, 
perhaps  even  more  than  our  own,  the  imperfections  of  human 
character  and  the  inadequate  conditions  under  which  our 
life  is  lived.  The  chance  that  life  would  develop  fair  and 
pure  under  the  conditions  then  prevailing,  was  so  infinitesi- 
mal that  it  is  not  strange  the  belief  should  have  gained 
credence  that  purity  and  holiness  were  not  of  this  world,  that 
only  in  isolation  could  one  attain  in  some  degree  to  that 
serenity,  purity  and  peace  which  were  the  accepted  char- 
acteristics of  the  life  in  the  heavenly  hereafter.  Those  who 
were  farthest  from  the  monastic  life  or  the  monastic  character 
were  as  little  disposed  as  any  to  question  the  monastic  ideal. 
To  escape  from  the  world,  its  temptations  and  its  disillusions, 
that  was  not  practicable  for  all,  for  how  should  life  continue 
if  all  men  forsook  the  callings  which  alone  could  perpetuate 
it  ?  But  fortunate  indeed  were  those  to  whom  was  given  the 
privilege  of  living  in  pure  contemplation,  of  seeing  heavenly 
visions,  and  of  acquiring,  uninterrupted,  an  increasing  measure 
of   the   heavenly   character.    Probably   William   the   Con- 


The  Protest  of  Faith  107 

queror  would  have  been  as  prompt  to  recognize  the  felicity 
of  the  monk,  as  he  was  to  accept  his  own  very  different 
calling. 

Rarely  has  a  monk  so  perfectly  exemplified  the  monastic 
theory  as  Fra  Angelico.  A  gentle  and  loving  spirit,  he  seems 
to  have  been  not  only  free  from,  but  strangely  ignorant  of, 
the  harsher  passions  that  are  so  large  a  part  of  human  experi- 
ence. If  he  was  ever  angry,  it  has  left  no  trace ;  if  he  ever 
saw  anger,  it  seems  to  have  pained  him  too  deeply  to  permit 
of  understanding  or  careful  observation.  From  all  the 
discord  and  din  of  strife  which  sounds  in  our  ears,  he  seems 
to  have  Uved  apart.  As  a  painter,  his  touch  is  the  most 
ineffable  of  any  that  we  know.  If  it  be  true,  as  we  are  told, 
that  he  never  began  to  paint  without  first  kneeling  and  pray- 
ing to  be  guided  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  that  having  thus 
prayed  he  thought  it  sacrilege  to  doubt  that  guidance,  even 
to  the  extent  of  changing  what  he  had  once  done,  his  work 
certainly  goes  far  to  bear  out  his  own  conviction  of  heavenly 
guidance.  He  is  fond  of  miniature,  tiny  faces  the  size  of 
one's  finger  nail,  worked  out  with  a  perfection  so  complete 
that,  magnified  to  natural  size,  they  still  show  scarce  a  touch 
of  imperfection.  His  feeling  for  color  is  as  unerring  as  his 
handiwork.  It  is  the  bright  color  that  speaks  at  once  of 
mediaeval  art  and  of  Giotto's  transforming  touch,  but  beyond 
this,  Giotto  coimts  for  nothing  in  the  art  of  Fra  AngeUco. 
The  same  lovely  groupings  with  perfect  symmetry,  the  same 
exquisite  backgrounds  of  lustrous  figured  gold,  the  same 
naive  conception  of  heavenly  scenes  that  characterized  the 
middle  ages,  are  familiar  to  us  in  the  art  of  the  wonderful 
monk.  His  ceaseless  industry,  furthered  by  the  appreciative 
pressure  of  his  Prior,  resulted  in  a  multitude  of  works  in  the 
preservation  of  which  Fate  has  been  exceptionally  kind. 

It  will  be  interesting  to  begin  our  acquaintance  with  Fra 
Angelico  by  examining  a  picture  that  was  painted  not  far 
from  the  time  that  Masaccio  was  painting  in  the  Brancacci 


io8  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Chapel.  The  two  men  were  of  very  different  age,  Fra  Angel- 
ico  already  passing  his  prime,  and  Masaccio  still  a  youth, 
but  this  difference  of  age  is  not  significant.  There  is  little 
of  development  in  Fra  Angelico.  The  other  was  a  youth, 
but  the  monk  was  always  a  youth,  so  the  comparison  is  less 
inappropriate  than  it  might  seem. 

At  first  sight  this  picture  seems  more  nearly  related  to 
Cimabue  than  to  Masaccio.  There  is  the  same  formal  pres- 
entation of  the  Madonna  and  Child  (B  115),  the  same  tip  of 
the  Madonna's  head,  the  same  curtained  background,  rich  with 
gold,  the  splendid  frame,  but  decorated  with  angels  —  which 
have  acquired  a  factitious  interest,  and  are  the  all  too  frequent 
representatives  of  the  artist  —  all  this  is  mediaeval.  In 
some  respects  it  is  far  more  so  than  Cimabue 's  work,  notably 
in  the  representation  of  the  Christ  Child.  Cimabue  leaves 
something  to  be  desired,  but  there  is  no  question  as  to  his 
purpose.  It  is  to  represent  a  natural  child,  a  purpose  which 
we  can  attribute  to  Fra  Angelico  only  by  assuming  his  total 
ignorance  of  the  subject  he  was  treating.  Such  ignorance 
is  indeed  often  assumed.  We  are  told  that  the  good  monk, 
living  in  his  cloister,  sav/  nothing  of  the  world.  The  Christ 
Child  is  such  as  he  imagines  a  child  to  be.  Equally,  the  use 
of  gold  backgrounds  was  fatal  to  the  larger  realism  of  the 
time,  which  was  based  on  perspective.  These  and  other 
characteristics  seem  to  indicate  an  unconsciousness  of  the 
mighty  advance  which  art  had  made. 

A  glance  at  some  of  the  details,  however,  makes  it  doubt- 
ful whether  ignorance  is  the  true  explanation.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  compare  closely  this  Madonna  of  the  Linaiuoli  with 
the  Rucellai  Madonna  by  Cimabue.  They  seem  alike  until  we 
put  them  together.  Then  all  is  contrast.  How  different,  for 
instance,  are  the  draperies  in  the  background.  Cimabue, 
as  we  have  seen,  has  nothing  but  a  few,  vaguely  hinted  folds 
that  are  carried  right  across  the  figures  in  the  gold  back- 
ground, as  though  figures  and  folds  had  no  relation  to  each 


B  115,  Madonna  of  the  Linaiuoli.    Ufl&zi,  Florence. 
Fra  AngeUco,  1387-1455. 


no  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

other.  Not  so  in  Fra  Angelico's  work.  The  figures  adjust 
themselves  perfectly  to  the  broken  pattern  of  the  folds. 
The  shadows  are  used  with  masterly  skill.  In  a  word,  the 
curtain  is  drawn  from  the  actual,  not  from  imagination. 
Now  that  is  the  very  essence  of  the  new  art.  The  old  art 
imagines  things.  If  it  copied  anything  it  copied  another 
painting.  The  new  art  studies  actualities  and  copies  nature 
with  only  such  modifications  as  the  limitations  of  the  artist 
or  his  higher  artistic  purpose  may  require.  If  Fra  Angelico 
studies  actual  curtains  he  is  using  the  method  of  the  new  art. 
There  are  abundant  reasons  to  believe  that  he  was  familiar 
with  both  the  methods  and  ideals  of  that  art.  If  his  own  art 
had  different  methods  and  ideals,  it  is  his  deliberate  choice, 
not  his  helplessness. 

How  then  can  we  account  for  such  an  impossible  child  as 
we  have  here  ?  Neither  proportion,  expression,  nor  draperies, 
are  in  the  remotest  degree  possible  for  a  real  child.  It  is 
essentially  a  doll,  an4  a  very  artificial  one  at  that.  It  is 
interesting  to  imagine  a  meeting  between  these  two  painters. 
The  painter  of  the  shivering  youth  might  gaze  upon  the  work 
of  the  good  monk,  and  say  with  a  smile,  good-natured, 
doubtless,  "  My  dear  Frate,  do  you  imagine  that  babies  look 
like  that  ?  Have  you  never  seen  the  children  playing  in  the 
streets  ?  "  A  poser,  such  a  question  might  seem  to  be,  too 
often  accepted  by  those  familiar  only  with  the  canons  of  our 
own  art,  as  the  sufficient  condemnation  of  this  artist  whose 
gaze  and  whose  affections  turned  back  toward  the  age  that 
was  past.  But  let  us  not  be  too  precipitate.  Can  we  not 
imagine  the  quiet  eye  of  the  monk  turned  round  upon  his 
good-natured  critic,  with  the  reply,  "My  dear  Masaccio, 
can  you  think  of  nothing  better  for  art  to  do  than  to  imitate 
the  children  that  are  playing  in  the  streets?  Wherein  are 
we  the  richer  if  this  commonplace  of  our  experience  is  pain- 
fully duplicated  in  our  art  ?  "  Nor  is  it  easy  to  refute  the 
argument.    Are  we,  after  all,  largely  remunerated  for  our 


The  Protest  of  Faith  iii 

toil  and  pains  by  mere  duplication  of  the  commonplaces 
of  nature  ? 

Fra  Angelico  has  qviite  another  goal  for  art,  one  which  the 
Christ  Child  may  well  illustrate.  His  purpose,  like  that  of 
Orcagna,  and  this  time  much  more  pronouncedly  and  cer- 
tainly, was  religious.  If  he  painted  the  Madonna,  it  was  not 
that  she  might  be  radiantly  beautiful.  It  was  that  she 
might  aid  in  that  great  purpose  which  controlled  his  life  and 
which  he  fain  would  make  the  purpose  of  all  life.  The 
Christ  Child  was  to  him  sacred,  must  needs  be  so  to  those 
who  viewed  his  art,  must  incite  to  devotion  rather  than  to 
admiration,  still  less  to  mere  wonder  at  the  cleverness  of  the 
artist ;  and,  in  accordance  with  the  principle  with  which  we 
are  already  familiar,  to  be  religious  it  must  needs  be  old- 
fashioned,  must  needs  suggest  the  forms  long  associated  with 
sanctity  and  devotion.  Hence  the  artist  does  not  take  as  his 
starting  point  the  child  in  the  streets,  which,  whatever  its  sig- 
nificance to  us,  has  never  been  suggestive  of  the  heavenly 
powers  nor  the  heavenly  Ufe.  He  goes  rather  to  the  church 
where  a  sacred  image  has  so  often  prompted  to  devotion,  and 
takes  this  sacred  image,  unconsciously  modified  by  centuries 
of  tradition  until  it  but  remotely  suggests  the  human  infant 
which  was  its  origin.  This  image,  fantastically  dressed,  often- 
times decorated  with  gems  and  revered  as  the  possessor  of 
occult  powers,  this  must  be  the  starting  point  for  his  art ;  the 
starting  point,  notice,  for  it  is  not  the  end  and  substance  of 
Fra  Angelico 's  art.  Paris  doll  though  the  Bambino  may  be, 
it  is  a  Paris  doll  transfigured.  There  is  nc  return  to  natural- 
ism. There  is  a  transfiguring  touch  of  celestial  beauty,  a 
suggestion  of  that  heavenly  life  which  it  is  the  purpose  of 
art  to  help  men  to  attain.  The  first  glance  at  Fra  Angelico 's 
pictures  reminds  us  always  of  the  middle  ages.  Closer  obser- 
vation will  as  invariably  reveal  to  us  a  higher  skill,  a  trans- 
figuring, spiritualizing  touch. 

The  principle  already  suggested  in  connection  with  the 


112  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


Christ  Child  is  everywhere  apparent.  The  Madonna  is 
much  the  same  as  tradition  had  known  before,  but  sweeter, 
truer,  lovelier,  more  heavenly  if  not  more  human.  The 
backgrounds,  the  accessories,  all  are  familiar,  yet  all  are  new. 
It  is.  most  important  that  we  should  emphasize  this  new 
or  higher  element  in  his  art  rather  than  its  superficial  resem- 
blance to  the  old.  art  whose  tradition  he  unquestionably 
accepted.  It  is  the  something  more  that  makes  Fra  Angelico 
the  supreme  artist.  That  something  more  is  not  in  the  line 
of  Masaccio's  development,  not  in  the  line  of  the  progress 
of  his  time.  It  is  for  that  reason  so  much  the  more  to  be 
attributed  wholly  to  himself.  Perhaps  we  shall  best  appre- 
ciate it  if  we  notice  the  Meeting  of  Christ  with  the  two  Do- 
minican Monks  (B  1 19).  It  is  useless  to  compare  this  figure  of 
the  Saviour  with  any  other  that  Italian  art  can  give  us.  It  is 
worthy  of  comparison,  but  comparison  is  futile.  All  is  con- 
trast. Look  upon  it  and  ask  yourself  the  familiar  test 
questions.  Is  this  the  "man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with 
grief "  ?^  There  is  scarce  a  trace  of  grief,  present  or  past,  in 
this  celestial  countenance.  Is  this  he  who  drove  the  money 
changers  out  of  the  temple?  The  thought  is  equally  impos- 
sible. Nearer,  perhaps,  we  shall  come  if  we  ask  if  this  is  he 
who  blessed  little  children  ?  And  yet  even  here  longer  obser- 
vation will  leave  us  in  doubt.  No,  without  disparagement 
to  this  wonderful  creation,  there  is  scarce  an  incident  in  the 
life  of  Jesus  that  we  can  associate  with  it.  And  when  we 
have- applied  our  test  in  vain,  it  will  perhaps  occur  to  us  that 
this  is  precisely  what  we  should  expect.  The  painter  is  not 
trying  to  give  us  the  historic  Christ.  It  is  none  of  these 
incidents  that  he  would  recall  to  our  mind.  On  the  contrary, 
he  would  disclose  to  us  in  the  Christ  as  in  the  Madonna,  in 
the  angels,  in  that  marvellous  series  of  heavenly  personalities 
which  gaze  at  us  so  serenely  from  his  pictures,  earl>  and  late, 
—  he  would  reveal  to  us  in  all  these,  not  the  earthly,  but  the 
heavenly  life.     It  is  no  part  of  his  purpose,  no  part  of  his 


114  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

ideal,  that  life  should  develop  what  we  commonly  call  charac- 
ter —  that  adaptation  to  the  earthly  surroundings,  that 
calmness  and  poise  that  fit  us  for  mastery  in  the  great  human 
struggle.  Of  all  that  struggle  he  knows  and  will  know 
nothing.  He  will  rather  reveal  to  us  the  beauty  of  the 
heavenly  life,  make  us  long  to  attain  it,  and  through  that 
lohging  adapt  ourselves  in  some  measure  to  it  before  it  is  as 
yet  our  portion. 

Most  significant  of  all  his  pictures  we  must  account  the 
Last  Judgment  (B  ii6),  strangest  of  themes  for  this  interpreter 
of  the  soul's  ecstasy.  In  the  perfectly  symmetrical  composition 
of  this  somewhat  complicated  picture,  we  have  first  of  all 
the  Christ,  sitting  high  in  the  center,  a  Christ  little  suited  to 
the  stern  occasion,  but  seraphically  beautiful ;  and  on  either 
side,  in  a  long  row,  are  the  saints  and  worthies,  while  sur- 
rounding the  Christ  are  a  group  of  heavenly  minis tr ants. 
They  are  the  angels  whose  happy  lot  it  is  to  sing  praises  before 
the  throne,  and  those  who,  in  mimicry  of  the  warfare 
that  there  can  never  be  known,  wear  little  helmets  and  armor 
as  the  Saviour's  bodyguard.  It  is  in  these  little  faces,  per- 
haps, that  we  shall  see  the  artist  at  his  best.  They  are  the 
tiniest  that  his  art  affords,  but  infinitely  perfect.  Uniform, 
yet  without  monotony,  they  epitomize  that  heavenly  spirit 
that  dominates  the  painter's  thought. 

(B  117)  Below  this  heavenly  group  there  are  the  open 
graves,  so  strange  to  our  modern  thought  but  precisely  such 
as  are  suggested  by  any  Italian  cemetery.  To  the  left  of 
these  graves  are  the  Blessed.  All  classes  and  conditions  are 
represented,  but  a  quiet  joy  and  peace  suffuses  all.  The 
sward  is  decked  with  flowers,  among  which  walk  the  souls 
of  the  happy  Just,  conducted  about  by  angels  in  naive,  child- 
like sweetness.  Angels  and  glorified  spirits  meet  in  a  fond 
embrace,  and  hand  in  hand,  go  circling  in  childish  glee  in  the 
games  that  children  know.  Off,  far  to  the  left,  is  a  gate,  the 
hint,  beyond  which  no  artist  ever  dared  to  go,  of  that  heavenly 


The  Protest  of  Faith  117 

Jerusalem  the  description  of  which  has  so  taxed  the  imagina- 
tion of  poet  and  seer.  Through  the  open  gateway  stream 
long  rays  of  golden  light  up  which  angels  sail  into  the  Presence 
which  mortal  eye  can  never  behold.  Nothing  can  exceed 
the  charm  of  our  artist's  composition.  Infinite  beauty  and 
quiet  loveliness  pervade  both  the  forms  and  the  suggestion 
of  these  transfigured  faces. 

The  most  violent  of  all  contrasts  is  called  for  in  this  theme. 
On  the  opposite  side  are  the  spirits  of  the  Damned,  driven  by 
demons  toward  the  place  of  torture.  The  demons  are  con- 
ventional, such  as  Fra  Angelico  had  seen  represented  in  works 
of  art  many  a  time.  He  contributes  little  to  the  conventional 
idea  and  exploits  but  imperfectly  its  ferocious  possibilities. 
The  Damned  themselves  fall  far  short  of  our  weird  imaginings. 
Their  faces,  doubtless  intended  to  depict  agonized  terror,  are 
somewhat  ambiguously  distorted.  We  are  prepared  to  see 
their  mock  agony  turned  into  a  peal  of  laughter,  and  tragedy 
end  in  a  joke.  The  artist  is  totally  unable  to  express  ade- 
quately those  passions  from  which  he  had  lived  so  remote, 
and  as  the  completion  of  the  picture,  according  to  traditional 
ideas,  called  for  a  deeper  depth  and  a  more  terrible  scene,  he 
gave  up  in  sheer  despair.  The  picture  of  Hell  at  the  right 
is  painted  by  another  and  a  coarser  hand.  The  good  artist's 
scruples  are  not  shared  by  the  substitute.  He  is  inade- 
quate enough,  but  his  inadequacy  is  due  to  his  grossness,  not 
to  the  shrinking  tenderness  of  a  soul  unable  to  endure  the 
thoughts  that  he  was  compelled  to  suggest.  It  would  be 
difiicult  to  find,  confined  within  a  single  frame,  in  all  Italy 
a  C9ntrast  so  great  as  that  between  the  coarseness  of  this 
alien  hand  and  the  ineffable  delicacy  of  the  inspired  monk. 

But  the  artist's  chief  glory  is  forever  associated  with  the 
Monastery  of  San  Marco  where  he  shares  the  honors  with 
the  great  monk  of  a  later  day.  There,  in  a  long  series  of 
cells,  he  has  wrought  with  varying  but  marvellous  skill,  the 
scenes  of  the  Passion.     Never  has  the  suffering  of  the  Saviour 


ii8  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

been  represented  in  so  spiritual  a  guise.  Compare  the 
buffeting  of  the  blind-folded  Jesus  with  a  representation  of 
the  passion  by  Rubens,  and  we  have  some  idea  of  the  abyss 
that  separated  these  two  interpreters  of  our  faith.  Supreme 
among  these  creations  must  be  accounted  the  Annunciation 
(B  1 20) .  The  Angel  appears  to  Mary,  announcing  that  she  is  to 
be  the  mother  of  the  Lord,  and  she,  bowing  in  obedience,  replies 
unmistakably,  by  attitude  and  expression,  ''Behold  the  hand- 
maid of  the  Lord;  be  it  unto  me  according  to  thy  word." 
Let  the  head  drop  a  trifle  lower,  and  instantly  it  becomes 
obsequious ;  hold  it  a  little  higher  and  something  of  haughty 
reserve  mars  the  perfect  spirit  of  the  scene.  Not  by  the 
deviation  of  a  hair  could  this  picture  be  modified  without 
sacrificing  something  of  its  spiritual  perfectness.  If  we  wish 
to  realize  the  possibilities  of  this  theme  for  better,  for  worse, 
let  us  compare  this  creation  of  Fra  Angelico  with  the  same 
theme  by  Veronese,  which  for  ogling,  coquettish  vulgarity, 
is  the  very  bathos  of  art. 

Again,  fame  resulted  in  a  call  from  Rome.  It  must  have 
been  with  no  small  trepidation  that  Fra  Angelico,  long  shel- 
tered within  the  walls  of  his  monastery,  heard  at  last  this 
call  from  the  Holy  Father  himself.  Doubtless  his  mind, 
however,  childlike  and  content,  had  its  doubts,  at  least,  let 
us  say,  its  wondering  questions  as  to  things,  in  the  faith  not 
easy  to  understand.  Indeed,  he  had  even  questioned  whether 
his  art  were  the  highest  form  of  service,  and  had  decided  to 
relinquish  it  and  give  himself  unreservedly  to  devotion,  when 
the  Prior,  less  troubled  with  scruples  of  this  sort,  had  peremp- 
torily commanded  .him  to  resume  his  work ;  and  this  he  did, 
nothing  doubting,  simple  soul  that  he  was.  He  had  taken 
upon  himself  the  vow  of  obedience.  The  Prior  knew  what 
was  right,  and  responsibility  and  wisdom  were  his.  And  so 
the  childlike  life  and  faith  continued.  And  now,  not  the 
Prior,  but  a  greater  than  he,  a  higher  and  holier  than  he,  was 
to  be  the  master  under  whose  eye  his  work  was  to  be  wrought. 


I20  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

How  much  more  perfectly  the  Vicar  of  Christ  must  appreciate 
the  heavenly  life ;  how  much  purer  his  vision  than  that  of 
the  simple  monk  !  So  we  may  imagine  ran  the  thought  of 
this  simple  spirit.  Next  to  heaven  itself  must  be  association 
with  this  highest  representative  of  the  heavenly  Master  1 

Alas  for  our  good  monk.  Something  else  than  heavenly 
visions  are  remembered  in  connection  with  the  Vatican  of 
those  days.  We  will  not  draw  back  the  curtain  that  hides 
too  much  that  is  unsightly.  The  Vatican  had  fallen  upon 
evil  days.  Humanism,  that  ambitious  program  of  philosophy 
and  life  which  aimed  to  formulate  the  results  of  experience, 
not  Christian,  nor  pagan,  but  of  all  human  experience,  had 
resulted,  as  such  programs  are  wont  to  do,  in  relaxing  the 
stern  grip  of  Christian  morals  and  faith,  and  in  bringing  back, 
not  the  greatness  and  the  glory,  but  the  weakness  of  pagan- 
ism. Humanism  it  was  meant  to  be;  neo-paganism  it 
really  became.  It  was  a  passing  phase  in  the  experience  of 
the  Vatican,  but  one  that  coincided  with  the  art  of  this 
wonderful  century.  At  its  best  we  find  it  in  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  at  its  worst  in  some  of  the  popes  of  the  period. 

Just  what  our  good  monk  found,  we  do  not  know.  Of 
one  thing  we  are  sure,  the  lovely  traditional  art  to  which  he 
added  a  new  spiritual  touch,  the  art  which,  with  its  wealth 
of  religious  associations,  had  seemed  so  obviously  Christian 
as  contrasted  with  the  new  art  that  was  so  secular  and  pro- 
fane, this  art  for  which  he  had  expected  a  still  more  illuminat- 
ing insight,  a  more  inspiring  appreciation  in  the  Vatican,  he 
found  disparaged.  The  Vatican  stood  for  Masaccio,  not  for 
Fra  Angelico.  Doubtless  they  broke  the  news  to  him  gently. 
Doubtless  their  disparagement  of  his  ideals  was  a  kindly  one. 
Incidents  are  not  recorded,  but  one  can  well  imagine  with 
what  troubled  spirit  the  monk  slowly  became  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  the  things  that  he  had  unhesitatingly  rejected  were 
the  things  that  here  were  approved ;  that  the  ideals  to  which 
he  had  devoted  his  life  were  here  regarded  as  obsolete  and 


The  Protest  of  Faith  i2i 

outworn.     Let  us  hope  that  no  worse  disillusioning  was  his 
portion. 

As  we  enter  the  little  Chapel  of  Nicholas  V  in  the  Vatican, 
by  far  the  most  religious  spot  in  that  vast  palace  of  the  popes, ' 
we  recognize  at  once  the  deUcacy  and  refinement  of  Fra 
Angelico.  But  there  are  things  that  seem  strange  to  us. 
St.  Stephen  preaching  is  a  pure  and  exalted  spirit,  but  despite 
everything,  he  seems  tame.  There  is  a  touch  of  the  per- 
functory in  the  representation  even  of  this  saint,  while  the 
listeners,  for  our  artist  at  least,  are  commonplace.  And 
behind  them,  in  the  background  of  the  scene,  tower  huge 
buildings,  utterly  meaningless  but  showing  evident  interest 
in.  the  problem  that  had  been  engaging  the  attention  of  the 
uninspired  Masolino.  Vistas  and  streets  and  architecture 
now  fill  the  space  where  angels  had  been  before.  The  artist 
is  trying  to  be  up  to  date. 

It  is  pitiful  to  notice  the  cheap  complacency  with  which 
the  critics  here  recognize  progress  in  Fra  Angelico.  The 
progress  which  they  note  is  nothing  but  the  surrender  of  a 
troubled  and  distracted  spirit  to  ideals  which,  whatever  their 
possibilities  for  the  future,  were  for  him  worldly  and  profane. 
And  soon  we  read,  not  without  a  sigh  of  relief,  upon  a  humble 
tomb  in  a  church  near  by,  the  name,  Beato  Angelico. 

Of  all  tragedy  there  is  none  that  compares  with  the  shat- 
tering of  a  life's  ideals.  The  torture  of  the  flesh  is  as  nothing 
to  the  torture  of  the  spirit.  When  Savonarola  was  imprisoned 
and  put  to  the  torture,  his  followers,  devout  believers  in  the 
purity  of  his  intentions,  and  completely  committed  to  those 
ideals  which  in  his  earlier  years  he  had  stated  with  such  un- 
compromising directness,  but  troubled  later  by  those  seeming 
compromises  that  as  practical  ruler  he  felt  himself  compelled 
to  make,  waited  for  some  word  from  the  dungeon  which 
should  explain  what  to  them  was  inexplicable,  which  should 
restore  their  perfect  faith  before  silence  should  still  his  voice 
forever.    And  at  last  the  word  came,  saddest  word  in  all  his 


122  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

history,  a  word  so  different  from  what  they  expected,  but  a 
word,  properly  understood,  infinitely  more  significant  than 
any  other  he  could  have  given  —  "  Brethren,  pray  for  me, 
for  God  hath  removed  from  me  the  spirit  of  prophecy." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  REVOLT  AGAINST  THE  CHURCH 

The  protest  of  Fra  Angelico  was  in  vain.  The  movement 
which  he  fain  would  check  was  not  the  movement  of  an 
individual  or  a  group.  It  was  the  movement  of  a  world. 
Conditions  far  beyond  the  limits  of  art  were  undergoing  a 
profound  change.  The  complete  reconstruction  of  society, 
affecting  every  department  of  human  life,  could  not  but 
destroy  the  old  ideals  of  art.  Masaccio  was  not  the  creator 
of  new  ideals;  he  was  but  their  expression.  The  old  order 
was  changing,  yielding  place  to  new,  not  without  the  loss  of 
much  that  was  good,  as  the  inspired  monk  so  deeply  felt,  a 
loss  without  adequate  compensation,  if  we  will,  but  the 
change  was  not  the  less  inevitable.  The  change  was  froni 
decoration  and  symbolism  to  realism,  and,  incidentally,  from 
religious  to  secular  control.  This  is  not  the  place  to  discuss 
the  inter-dependence  of  these  ideas.  Whether  reaHstic  art 
can  ever  be  religious  we  may  leave  each  to  settle  for  himself. 
Certain  it  is  that  as  art  turned  toward  nature  and  away  from 
symbolism  and  tradition,  it  lost  the  power  to  inspire  reverence 
and  incite  to  devotion.  The  church  felt  that  loss  and  would 
have  resisted  the  change  much  more  strenuously  and  effec- 
tively than  it  did,  had  it  not  been  that  by  a  strange  accident, 
the  church  for  the  time  being  fell  under  a  control  that  was 
anything  but  religious.  Backed  up  by  the  Vatican  itself,  the 
new  ideals  gained  rapid  headway  until,  when  at  last  human- 
ism lost  its  hold  upon  the  church,  the  destruction  of  the  old 
ideals  was  so  far  complete  as  to  make  their  restoration 

impossible. 

123 


124  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

A  dramatic  touch  was  given  to  this  transition  by  the 
peculiar  temperament  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  Florentine 
artists,  Filippo  Lippi.  A  waif  in  the  streets  of  Florence,  he 
had  accepted  the  monastic  life  at  the  ripe  age  of  eight  years, 
in  blissful  ignorance  both  of  the  nature  of  that  life  and  of  his 
own  temperament.  He  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  attrac- 
tive personality,  one  who  had  the  power  to  win  the  favor 
even  of  those  who  least  approved  of  his  conduct.  It  was  a 
time,  too,  when  laxity  in  the  monastic  orders  was  too  common 
to  feel  the  full  measure  of  social  reprobation.  Yet  Fra 
Lippo  scandalized  even  this  tolerant  age.  There  was  in  his 
career  of  indulgence  an  element  of  romantic  daring  and  a 
disregard  of  those  standards  of  honor  which  commonly  re- 
strain even  the  social  trespasser,  which  would  have  exposed 
him  to  the  severest  penalties  if  he  had  not  enjoyed  the 
immimity  which  is  accorded  to  genius  and  personal  charm. 
Doubtless  the  inconsistency  between  his  vows  and  his  conduct 
is  responsible  for  much  of  the  scandal  which  has  gathered 
about  his  name.  This  scandal  we  might  well  ignore  were 
it  not  for  the  unfortunate  fact  that  his  character,  and,  in 
particular,  one  of  his  escapades,  exercised  an  important 
influence  upon  his  art.  Commissioned  to  execute  some 
important  frescoes  in  the  Cathedral  of  Prato,  he  was  allowed 
as  his  model  a  girl  of  good  Florentine  family,  living  in  a  con- 
vent there,  whether  as  a  nun,  a  novice,  or  a  protegee  of  the 
nuns,  is  not  quite  clear.  With  this  girl  he  eloped,  to  the 
mortal  offense  of  her  family  and  the  scandal  of  the  whole 
community.  The  penalty,  according  to  the  canon  law  of  the 
church,  was  death,  but  a  genius  like  Fra  Lippo  had  little 
occasion,  in  any  age,  to  fear  extreme  penalties.  A  dispensa- 
tion from  their  vows  enabled  them  to  marry,  and  a  son  born 
of  this  union,  Filippino  Lippo,  was  destined,  in  his  turn,  to 
make  a  name  in  art.  We  shall  soon  have  occasion  to  note 
that  this  temperament  of  Fra  Lippo,  and  this  episode  in 
particular,  had  important  consequences  in  the  development 


The  Revolt  against  the  Church  125 

of  Florentine  art.     It  is  surmised  that  even  his  death  was  not 
dissociated  from  the  scandals  of  his  life. 

In  all  this  surmise  we  must  make  much  allowance  for  the 
exaggeration  of  rumor  and  gossip,  but  there  can  be  little 
question  that  the  monk  made  upon  his  time  the  impression 
of  a  talented  libertine,  endowed  with  great  personal  charm, 
though  perhaps  more  a  slave  to  unfortunate  circumstance 
than  a  blackhearted  villain.  Despite  his  much  scandalized 
career  he  seems  to  have  borne  a  charmed  life  and  to  have  been 
everywhere  the  object  of  admiration  and  good  will  if  not  of 
approval. 

/  It  is  necessary,  as  we  study  Filippo  Lippi's  art  to  keep 
.constantly  in  mind  this  contradiction  between  his  calling 
/and  his  temperament  and  conduct.  It  is  quite  gratuitous 
to  assume  that  he  was  wholly  wanton.  Doubtless  he  felt 
often  enough,  and  often  enough  had  occasion  to  feel,  the 
inconsistency  between  his  life  and  his  profession.  This 
inconsistency  must  have  galled  him,  goading  him  at  first 
toward  reform  and  repentance,  possibly  extorting  from  him 
many  a  painful  penance,  and  then  again,  as  the  case  became 
hopeless,  goading  him  equally  to  madness  against  restraints 
which  were  conceived  rather  as  arbitrarily  laid  upon  him  than 
as  inhering  in  the  order  of  nature.  That  this  contradiction 
was  present  in  his  mind  seems  the  inevitable  conclusion  from 
our  study  of  his  art.  Dominated  at  first  by  a  sincere  piety, 
expressing  the  sentiments  which  were  probably  often  enough 
his  owTi,  and  which  he  sincerely  though  vainly  strove  to  make 
paramount,  it  becomes  toward  the  end  wantonly  defiant  and 
breaks  consciously  and  violently  with  sacred  tradition. 

The  first  authentic  work  of  Filipjx)  Lippi  is  a  beautiful 
Annunciation  (B  154),  extremely  simple,  the  standing  figures  of 
the  angel  and  the  Virgin  occupying  two  panels  which  would 
hardly  permit  of  any  other  representation.  There  is  an 
absence  of  pictorial  background,  though  not  the  background 
of  flat  gold  to  which  we  have  been  accustomed.    The  figures 


B  154,  The  Annunciation.     Academy,  Florence. 
Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  1406?-1469. 


The  Revolt  against  the  Church  127 

have  the  same  tender  loveliness  if  not  quite  the  same  spiritual 
expression  that  we  find  in  similar  works  by  Fra  Angelico. 
There  is  indeed  something  closely  akin  between  these  faces 
and  that  of  the  Madonna  in  Fra  Angelico 's  famous  Annuncia- 
tion already  referred  to.  There  is  an  equally  beautiful, 
possibly  even  more  subtle  feeling  for  color.  The  resemblance 
goes  still  farther.  The  draperies,  which  fall  in  not  very 
natural  but  traditional  folds,  remind  us  of  the  draperies  on 
the  familiar  angels  from  the  frame  of  the  Madonna  of  the 
Linaiuoli.  There  is  no  downright  imitation  of  Fra  Angelico. 
There  is,  on  the  contrary,  seemingly  a  kinship  of  spirit.  The 
observer,  gazing  upon  this  work,  might  have  exclaimed, 
''Here  we  have  another  Fra  Angelico,  not  quite  mature  as 
yet,  but  give  him  a  little  time  and  he  will  rival  the  work  of 
the  blessed  brother."  There  is  not  a  hint  as  yet  that  we  have 
in  the  painter  a  revolte. 

Our  next  picture  is  again,  strangely  enough,  an  Annunciation 
(B  155).  Differently  shaped  and  differently  conceived,  it  is, 
after  all,  not  wholly  different  in  spirit.  The  Virgin,  sitting  now, 
bows  perhaps  with  less  suggestion  of  spiritual  comprehension 
than  in  the  work  of  Fra  Angelico,  but,  after  all,  in  close  sym- 
pathy with  it.  The  work  is  now  highly  pictorial.  There  is 
background,  perspective  and  a  great  deal  of  beautiful,  though 
not  always  appropriate  detail.  The  perspective  is  careless 
but  vivid,  for  our  artist  had  a  bit  of  slapdash  freedom  about 
him  which  now  begins  to  show.  As  we  turn  to  the  angel, 
however,  we  can  clearly  trace  the  beginning  of  a  new  spirit. 
The  angel  is  decorous,  performs  his  part  perfectly,  much  as  a 
child  ministrant  before  the  altar,  but  the  face  suggests  the 
nonchalance  and  the  carefreeness  of  the  child  and  not  the 
spiritual  significance  of  the  occasion. .  There  is  nothing  at  all 
of  the  tender  reverence  that  is  so  beautifully  manifest  in  the 
earlier  work.  The  angel  is  simply  a  lovely  boy  with  quite 
inappropriate  wings.  His  bo3dshness  is  in  no  wise  offensive. 
It  merely  is  not  in  the  least  redolent  of  sanctity. 


The  Revolt  against  the  Church  129 

If  now  we  turn  to  the  beautiful  Madonna  and  Child  with 

two  Angels  (B  152),  in  the  Uffizi,  we  see  a  still  further  advance 
along  the  same  line,  not  to  mention  advance  along  other  lines, 
for  our  artist  has  become  the  great  colorist  of  Florence. 
Nothing  can  surpass  the  beauty  with  which  he  now  tones 
his  color  with  shadow,  giving  it  that  richness  and  depth  which 
the  mere  surface  color  of  ordinary  Florentine  art  can  never 
know.  But  we  must  confine  our  interest  for  the  moment 
rather  to  his  spiritual  ideals.  The  Madonna  is  still  fairly 
true  to  her  role.  There  may  be  a  suspicion  of  spiritual 
shallowness  in  her  demure  face  but  she  in  no  wise  travesties 
the  part.  But  the  Christ  Child,  and  still  more,  the  childish 
angel  that  complete  the  picture,  have  lost  the  faintest  sug- 
gestion of  spiritual  things.  More  materiaUstic,  healthy  little 
animals  it  would  be  impossible  to  imagine.  There  is  more 
than  animalism  and  health;  there  is  the  most  undisguised 
suggestion  of  mischief  in  these  sturdy  little  faces,  more 
particularly  the  angel.  There  is  the  plain  evolution  now  of  a 
type  which  henceforth  is  not  to  be  dissociated  from  Fra 
Lippo's  work,  a  type  good-natured  and  buoyant  but  irrecon- 
cilable with  spiritual  suggestion. 

Precisely  the  same  type  of  Christ  Child  appears  in  the 
Madonna  of  the  Pitti,  and  as  we  look  closer  we  make  out  the 
same  type  of  Madonna.  We  are  perhaps  somewhat  more  in 
doubt  than  before  as  to  whether  she  takes  her  Madonna  role 
very  seriously.  She  is  demure  and  proper  on  the  surface 
rather  than  deeply  imbued  with  the  heavenly  temper.  Indeed, 
the  longer  we  gaze,  the  less  suited  to  the  role  she  seems.  It 
is  therefore  not  so  much  of  a  surprise  when  we  learn  that  in 
both  the  pictures  we  have  been  studying  we  have  a  portrait 
of  the  woman  of  the  episode  above  referred  to.  The  inap- 
propriateness  of  this  choice  is  not  aggravated  by  any  unneces- 
sary suggestion  on  the  artist's  part,  but  it  remains  a  shock- 
ing innovation,  little  less  than  an  outrage  for  those  who  have 
the  slightest  concern  for  the  older  ideal.     Up  to  this  time 


B  152,  Madonna  and  Child,  with  Angels.    Uffizi,  Florence. 
Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  14067-1469. 


The  Revolt  against  the  Church  131 

the  introduction  of  portraits  in  sacred  pictures  had  been  rare, 
not  to  say  unknown.  The  few  cases  previously  recorded  are 
for  the  most  part  in  second-class  pictures  and  rest  upon 
doubtful  authority.  In  the  later  Renaissance  such  portraits 
are  more  frequent ;  in  the  art  of  the  North  exceedingly  com- 
mon. The  Sistine  Madonna  is  a  portrait.  But  the  great 
artists  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  are  ordinarily  careful  to 
quite  disguise  the  portrait.  The  personality  is  transfigured, 
and  the  picture  becomes  rather  a  derivative  than  a  true  por- 
trait, the  disturbing  irrelevancy  being  thus  greatly  diminished. 
In  the  northern  pictures,  too,  where  the  artist  was  usually 
sadly  lacking  in  high-minded  propriety,  not  to  say  in  sense  of 
humor,  as  also  in  some  of  the  better  Venetian  works,  the 
portraits  introduced  are  distinctly  excluded  from  the  sacred 
roles.  The  picture  of  the  donor  is  usually  in  a  side  panel 
in  an  attitude  of  devotion  toward  the  saint  for  whose  picture 
he  has  paid.  Or,  if  included  in  the  picture,  as  in  Titian's 
Madonna  of  the  Pesaro  Family,  the  separation  of  role  is 
none  the  less  distinct.  Even  so,  the  portrait  is  a  disturbing 
factor,  at  least  to  the  generation  who  recognizes  its  identity. 
We  have  but  to  transfer  it  into  our  own  time  and  to  imagine 
sacred  pictures  with  saints  and  prophets  interspersed  with 
portraits  of  present  day  statesmen  or  captains  of  industry 
to  appreciate  the  incongruity  of  these  medleys,  fortunately 
so  rare  in  better  Itahan  art. 

But  Fra  Lippo  has  done  worse  than  this.  He  has  not 
merely  painted  a  portrait  as  a  detail  in  a  picture  representing 
a  sacred  person.  The  sacred  person  herself  is  a  portrait,  and 
the  portrait  of  a  person  distinctly  disreputable,  to  the  common 
knowledge  of  all  spectators.  This  is  little  less  than  conscious 
sacrilege,  and  can  be  interpreted  only  as  a  deliberate  affront 
to  the  religious  sentiments  of  his  time.  The  artist,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  Httle  in  sympathy  with  these  sentiments  at 
the  best,  and  the  consciousness  that  he  was  under  indictment 
before  the  bar  of   social  sentiment  was  one  to  which  he 


132  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

could  not  be  indifferent,  and  whose  influence  he  could  not 
throw  off. 

In  other  and  larger  works  we  find  the  same  traits,  as  well 
as  some  other  characteristics  that  are  worthy  of  note.  Such, 
for  instance,  is  the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin  to  which  Brown- 
ing refers  in  his  well-known  poem,  as  also  the  Virgin  with 
attendant  Saints.  We  have  the  same  types,  the  same  good- 
natured,  carnal  temperament,  not  vicious  but  unspiritual. 
We  have  the  same  indifference  to  spiritual  symbols  and 
suggestion.  Notice,  for  instance,  that  in  the  Coronation  of  the 
Virgin,  nearly  every  person  in  the  company  turns  his  back 
upon  the  performance  and  looks  out  from  the  picture,  con- 
scious of  the  audience,  not  conscious  of  the  ostensible  subject 
of  interest.  Note  again  the  emergence  of  Fra  Lippo  himself 
in  the  right  foreground  of  the  picture,  —  a  masterly  portrait 
and  suggestive  of  the  jovial  good-nature  of  the  man,  but 
again  an  irrelevancy  bordering  on  profanation.  The  same 
spirit  characterizes  the  still  more  ambitious  scene  of  the 
Burial  of  St.  Stephen,  a  part  of  the  great  series  of  frescoes 
which  Fra  Lippo  executed  upon  the  walls  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Prato.  Here  for  the  first  time,  but  unfortunately  not  for  the 
last  time,  we  see  the  total  disregard  of  the  real  spirit  of  the 
theme.  Only  a  hired  mourner  or  two,  making  ado  over  the 
body  of  the  saint,  while  the  others  line  up  in  ranks  as  though 
the  camera  were  focused  upon  them  and  the  one  matter 
of  real  importance  were  their  appearance  in  the  picture. 

To  sum  up,  Fra  Lippo  makes  a  distinct  advance  in  the 
technique  of  Florentine  art.  He  does  not  catch  the  mar- 
velous vision  of  Masaccio;  no  later  Florentine  did.  The 
mystery  of  atmosphere  and  light,  the  dreamy  poetry  of  nature, 
that  was  reserved  for  another  time  and  for  another  environ- 
ment of  feeling  and  ideas.  But,  ignoring  Masaccio  for  the 
moment  —  that  spirit  at  once  so  transcendent  and  so  alien 
to  the  temper  of  his  time,  Fra  Lippo  takes  up  the  art  of 
Masolino  and  the  others,  and  distinctly  plods  farther.    His 


The  Revolt  against  the  Church  133 

greater  mastery  of  the  human  figure,  his  improvement  of 
perspective,  above  all  things  and  unique  in  his  work,  his 
magnificent  mastery  of  color,  could  not  but  command  for 
him  a  respect  which  made  him  influential  in  the  farther 
development  of  art.  But  recognizing  all  these  facts,  the 
real  significance  of  Fra  Lippo  is  the  changing  temper  which 
he  brought  to  the  traditional  themes  of  Florentine  art. 
Himself  a  monk,  and  therefore,  in  a  certain  sense,  con- 
spicuously aligned  with  the  ecclesiastical  influence,  he  openly 
defies  that  ecclesiastical  leadership,  and  that  the  more  so 
because  he  seldom  if  ever  abandons  the  religious  theme. 
*'It  is  saints  and  saints  and  saints  again,"  and  painted  with 
something  of  the  listlessness  and  satiety  which  Browning's 
lines  suggest,  but  not  unfrequently  painted  with  a  deliberate 
fling  disastrous  to  their  sanctity.  Had  he  been  less  of  a 
painter,  his  revolt  against  the  religious  tutelage  of  art  would 
have  had  less  influence.  As  it  was,  it  coincided  with  the 
general  movement  of  his  time.  There  were  few  who  were 
disposed  to  openly  affront  the  church.  There  were  few  to 
whom  the  features  of  a  discredited  woman  in  the  role  of 
Madonna  did  not  bring  something  of  a  shock.  But  that 
sacredness  which  Fra  Angelico  saw  in  these  themes  and  which 
he  tried  to  instill  so  deeply  into  art  was  incompatible  with  the 
growing  enthusiasm  for  nature.  To  explain  is  necessarily 
to  substitute  known  terms  for  the  unknown,  that  is,  to  restate 
the  thing  we  are  explaining  in  terms  of  our  own  experience. 
A  thing  thus  explained  becomes  natural,  and  once  natural, 
it  ceases  of  necessity  to  be  supernatural.  The  realistic  ten- 
dency in  art  was  also  and  perforce  a  secularizing  tendency 
in  art.  This  being  true,  the  mighty  influence  of  Fra  Lippo 
came  at  a  fateful  moment.  None  of  his  followers  indulged 
in  open  flings  at  the  Church.  None  make  angels  and  saints 
quite  so  carnal  as  Fra  Lippo,  still  less  do  they  travesty  these 
themes  in  his  audacious  manner.  But  his  listlessness  and 
satiated  appetite  for  these  themes  from  this  time  is  normal. 


134  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

No  Florentine  after  Fra  Lippo's  time  hesitates  to  introduce 
portraits  into  sacred  scenes.  The  Medici  bring  their  Magian 
gifts  to  the  Christ  Child.  Burghers  of  Florence  line  up  to 
see  the  angel  appear  unto  Zacharias.  The  thrill  of  recog- 
nition and  of  meaning  which  once  greeted  these  themes  is 
gone  now  forever.  Florentine  art  as  the  expression  of  re- 
ligious sentiment  has  run  its  course.  Only  the  great  Floren- 
tine whose  art  transcends  that  of  Florence,  was  able,  contrary 
to  all  precedent,  and  by  the  exercise  of  superhuman  powers, 
again  to  make  these  exhausted  themes  glow  with  feeling 
and  life. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  NEW  PAGANISM  AND  THE  OLD  FAITH 

FiLiPPO  LiPPi  died  in  1469.  There  was  a  human  genera- 
tion left  in  this  century  which  was  still  to  be  Florentine. 
After  that,  the  little  city  no  longer  houses  the  art  which  she 
has  produced.  This  generation  belongs  to  two  painters,  the 
very  antipodes  in  character,  but  each  significant  of  the  ten- 
dencies and  limitations  of  the  tkae  —  Botticelli  and  Ghir- 
landajo.  Botticelli  is  the  pagan  poet  of  the  Renaissance. 
The  generation  in  which  he  was  active  marked  the  triumph 
of  humanism.  That  philosophy,  as  its  ambitious  name 
suggests,  aimed  to  be  the  resume  of  human  experience,  not  of 
Christian  experience  nor  of  Italian  experience,  nor  of  any 
other  territory  or  period.  All  that  was  good  in  paganism, 
its  philosophy,  its  religion  and  its  art,  as  likewise  in  Chris- 
tianity and  all  other  ages,  lands  and  faiths,  was  to  be  united 
in  this  great  synthesis.  Of  course  local  and  Christian 
experiences  were  infinitely  nearer  to  hand.  They  saturated 
the  common  consciousness.  Inevitably,  therefore,  the  great 
task  was  to  bring  in  those  that  were  remoter  in  time  and 
place,  to  fashion  new  sympathies,  break  down  old  prejudices, 
and  make  way  for  the  larger  view.  Just  as  inevitably  this 
task  led  the  humanist  to  emphasize  these  alien  and  remoter 
elements,  more  or  less  to  the  disparagement  of  the  local, 
against  whose  intolerance  he  was  continually  compelled  to 
fight.  And  just  as  inevitably,  the  ambitious  program  of 
thought  and  morals  was  one  to  which  life  could  not  adjust 
itself.  The  sublimity  of  the  pagan  philosophy  was  no  safe- 
guard against  the  moral  laxity  which  inevitably  resulted 

13s 


136  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

from  the  shattering  of  local  prejudices,  often  the  safeguards 
and  ministers  of  righteousness.  Humanism  thus  wears  two 
characters  as  we  contemplate  the  history  of  this  period  —  a 
theoretical  character  which  is  one  of  magnificent  but  rather 
incoherent  eclecticism,  and  a  practical  character  which  is 
one  of  more  than  pagan  laxity.  In  the  words  of  George 
Eliot's  superb  characterization,  "It  was  an  age  of  pedantic, 
impossible  ethics,  uttered  by  rote,  and  of  crude  passions 
acted  out  with  childish  impulsiveness."  Humanism  in  this 
age,  theoretical  and  practical,  had  for  the  moment  won  the 
intelligent  classes  in  Italy  and  even  captured  the  Vatican 
which  it  was  to  hold  for  a  century.  It  expressed  itself  per- 
haps at  its  best  in  the  splendid  court  of  the  Medici.  There  it 
came  nearest  to  ripening  into  an  effective  system  of  guidance 
for  conduct,  and  though  the  lives  of  even  its  best  representa- 
tives were  seldom  above  reproach,  we  may  gaze  with  some- 
thing of  wistfulness  at  that  marvelous  development  of  taste 
which  at  once  filled  life  with  poetry  and  came  so  near  serving 
as  an  effective  substitute  for  the  irksome  thralls  of  conscience. 
It  was  in  this  headquarters  of  Renaissance  Humanism  that 
we  find  Botticelli  at  his  best,  a  tender  and  sensitive  spirit. 
Too  refined  by  nature  to  be  attracted  by  the  grossness  which 
in  his  time  was  never  far  to  seek,  he  was  drawn  as  to  a  magnet 
by  the  splendid  refinement  and  subtle  taste  of  the  Medicean 
court.  In  his  work,  the  love  of  the  classical  and  the  sym- 
pathy for  the  Christian  find  more  complete  reconciliation 
than  in  the  work  of  any  other  Italian.  Both  themes  were  in  ^ 
vogue  in  this  truly  tolerant  and  appreciative  court  of  Lorenzo. 
Both  themes  were  ardently  grasped  by  the  fine  sensibility 
of  the  artist  poet.  Added  to  this  larger  taste  is  a  trait  that 
is  never  far  to  seek,  whose  value  in  art  is  more  dubious,  —  a 
fondness  for  allegory  and  for  esoteric  symbolism,  often 
completely  unfathomable  and  subject  to  the  most  various 
interpretation.  In  this  we  see  a  point  of  contact  with  the 
great  Savonarola  who  was  to  loom  so  large  upon  his  later 


The  New  Paganism  and  the  Old  Faith         137 

horizon.     No  exegesis  of  the  great  preacher  was  too  far 
fetched  to  appeal  to  the  weird  imagination  of  Botticelli. 

Botticelli's  art  has  been  the  subject  of  striking  differences 
of  opinion.  In  his  own  day  he  seems  to  have  been  but 
moderately  famous,  being  celebrated  rather  as  a  clever 
draughtsman  than  as  an  artist  otherwise  great.  In  our  day 
he  has  strangely  risen  to  favor,  often  to  the  irritation  of  the 
studio  pedagogue,  who  sees  in  his  work  the  incarnation  of 
artist's  license.  The  judgment  of  these  critics  is  strikingly 
at  variance  with  alleged  Florentine  contemporary  opinion, 
for  the  modern  painter  is  certain  above  all  things  that  Botti- 
celli could  not  draw.  His  works  give  support  to  both  opinions, 
according  to  the  example  chosen. 

Perhaps  the  first  accredited  work  of  Botticelli  which  we 
possess  is(J^udith  who,  with  her  servant,  is  bearing  the  head 
of  Holofernes.  It  has  some  striking  characteristics,  but 
is  of  doubtful  excellence.  Judith  poses  quite  unmistakably 
for  picture  purposes.  She  has  neither  the  grim  determination 
necessary  to  account  for  her  heroic  act,  nor  yet  an  attitude 
which  would  permit  of  the  rapid  motion  which  her  draperies 
and  the  theme  suggest.  Other  discrepancies  might  be  noted, 
but- the  real  significance  of  the  picture  is  the  novel  manner 
in  which  the  draperies  are  made  to  do  duty  for  manifold 
suggestion.  These  draperies  become  the  distinguishing 
external  mark  of  BotticelH's  art.  They  are  never  still. 
If  his  figures  move,  these  draperies  that  flutter  to  the 
slightest  imaginable  wind,  translate  their  motion  and  em- 
phasize it  to  our  imagination.  Even  if  the  figure  stands 
still,  the  draperies  seem  to  prophesy  the  motion  which  is 
soon  to  follow,  or  recall  the  motion  which  has  ceased  but  a 
moment  before.  Mobile  when  not  moving,  these  draperies 
make  his  figures  instinct  with  a  curious  mercurial  life. 
They  are  artificial  but  expressive,  the  despair  and  the  pitfall 
of  his  contemporaries  who  tried  to  imitate  them,  as  did 
even  Fra  Lippo,  his  teacher,  and  the  stately  Ghirlandajo, 


138  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

whose  prosaic  dignity  thus  garbed  is  simply  grotesque.  But 
these  draperies  are  only  the  key  to  a  larger  application  of  the 
same  spirit.  It  is  the  spirit  of  rather  wanton  poetic  Ucense, 
but  always  under  the  guidance  of  a  dreamy,  poetic  fancy. 
This  is  best  revealed  in  the  remarkable  pictures  which  were 
painted  for  the  Medici  and  which  are  widely  and  popularly 
known  in  this  age  of  revived  interest  in  Botticelli.  Their 
popularity  is  a  doubtful  fad.  It  is  more  than  questionable 
whether  many  of  their  admirers  see  in  them  more  than  an 
enigmatical  strangeness,  a  riddle  to  be  guessed,  an  oppor- 
tunity for  posing  and  affectation  of  fondness.  But  beyond 
question  they  have  succeeded  in  fascinating  great  numbers 
who  are  totally  unable  to  analyze  their  charm.  It  is  against 
these  pictures  that  the  criticism  of  the  modern  painter  is 
oftenest  directed.  Take,  for  instance,  the  three  graces  in 
the  Allegory  of  Spring  (B  1 68) .  How  impossible  their  figures  ! 
How  unstable  their  attitudes !  How  unthinkable  their 
draperies!  It  is  the  despair  of  the  studio  disciplinarian  to 
find  his  students  hankering  after  Botticelli.  He  sets  at 
naught  all  the  rules  which  the  studio  inculcates. 

The  prosaic  interpreter  of  themes  is  equally  at  a  loss  to 
know  what  to  make  out  of  such  a  picture.  Who  are  these 
three  people  that  stand  meaningless  as  well  as  impossible? 
The  Three  Graces  by  popular  consent,  but  only  because  they 
are  three,  and  no  other  trinity  is  thinkable.  Who  is  this 
figure  in  the  center ;  this  much  befiowered  figure  to  the  right ; 
this  filmy  garmented  fleeing  woman  pursued  by  the  satyr 
from  behind?  Sorry  attempts  are  made  to  identify  these 
various  figures.  In  the  center  is  Venus,  we  are  told;  the 
Three  Graces  to  the  left.  The  figure  with  the  flowers  in  her 
lap  and  on  her  garments  is  obviously  Flora.  The  pursued 
female  is  the  spring-time  which  is  overtaken  by  the  untimely 
returning  winter.  All  such  explanations  are  worse  than 
useless. 

That   Botticelli  had   unfathomable,   esoteric   suggestions 


140  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

back 'of  his  picture  is  probable  enough.  That  they  are  the 
essence  of  his  picture  is  certainly  not  true.  Can  we  not  for  a 
moment  slip  the  leash  both  of  studio  rule  and  literary  label, 
and  find  a  meaning  in  Botticelli's  strange  art  ?  First  of  all, 
let  us  see  whether  Botticelli's  drawing  is  helpless  or  wanton. 
Could  he  or  could  he  not  draw  correctly  ?  Let  us  turn  for  a 
moment  to  the  Visit  of  the  Magi  (B  175),  a  picture  which  has 
in  its  extremest  form  the  vice  already  referred  to,  of  irrelevant 
portrait,  but  in  a  form  so  extreme  that  it  almost  ceases  to  be  a 
vice.  Nobody  takes  the  theme  in  this  case  with  the  slightest 
seriousness.  The  Holy  Family  are  the  merest  accident  in 
the  background.  Everybody  knows  that  the  kneeling  king 
is  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  that  the  other  members  of  the  same 
group  are  members  of  this  same  house,  that  off  to  the  right 
are  the  magnificent  followers,  the  strong  men  whom  their 
penetration  chose  and  placed  in  strategic  positions.  It  is  a 
group  portrait,  that  is  all,  but  in  this  case  that  is  much,  for 
it  is  beyond  question  the  finest  group  portrait  in  the  world, 
in  the  significance  of  the  characters,  the  ease  and  naturalness 
of  their  postures,  the  absence  of  consciousness,  the  perfect 
analysis  both  of  character  and  of  status  as  expressed  in 
bearing  and  in  feature.  In  all  these  particulars  this  group 
has  no  superior,  if  indeed  it  has  an  equal  in  the  art  of  the 
world.  And  notice  how  perfectly  these  figures  accommodate 
themselves  to  the  needs  of  the  picture.  No  one  gets  in  any- 
one's way,  yet  there  is  no  lining  up,  no  straining  of  position 
or  attitude  to  prevent  interference,  as  in  Fra  Lippo's  Burial 
of  St.  Stephen  already  referred  to.  All  is  spontaneous, 
natural,  easy.  A  moment's  glance  at  this  picture,  which  will 
repay  the  profoundest  study,  convinces  us  that  BotticelU 
was  absolute  master  of  the  draughtsman's  art.  When  he 
chose  to  draw  actualities  he  could  do  so  easily,  unerringly. 
More  than  that,  Botticelli  had  a  power,  perhaps  unrivaled 
in  the  history  of  Florentine  art,  of  lifting  out  the  great  traits 
of  character  into  prominence  and  delineating  them  with  a  few 


142  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

simple  strokes  uncomplicated  by  meaningless  details.  Com- 
pare for  a  moment  a  group  of  heads  from  his  great  fresco 
in  the  Sistine  Ceiling  (B  172),  with  a  like  group  of  faces  from 
Ghirlandajo's  work  in  Santa  Maria  Novella.  Botticelli's 
work  is  simple;  the  features  are  the  fewest  possible;  no 
unnecessary  lines  complicate  the  face.  Yet  these  heads 
epitomize  in  an  unparalleled  degree  the  characters  of  the  men 
whom  they  represent.  Take  the  first  on  the  left.  Strong, 
coarse-grained,  alert,  he  turns  his  head  to  one  side  in  a  manner 
instinct  with  energy.  Rude  and  coarse  he  may  be,  but  not 
ungenerous.  How  easily  we  can  find  a  place  where  that 
man  would  fit !  How  positive  we  are  that  we  know  his 
essential  characteristics  !  Take  the  seconS,  the  youth  in  the 
background.  Delicate  and  dreamy-eyed,  his  gaze  turned 
toward  heaven,  unmindful,  it  may  be,  of  the  ditch  that  lies 
in  his  path,  he  is  the  essence  of  poetry,  that  unpractical 
dweller  in  dreamland  to  whom  the  world  owes  so  much. 
These  two  circles  of  character  scarce  touch  each  other  at  a 
single  point  of  their  circumference.  The  third  is  different. 
No  poet  he ;  coarse  like  the  first,  logy  and  selfish,  it  may  be. 
Not  to  him,  as  to  the  first,  should  we  turn  for  the  quick 
impulse  of  generosity  in  misfortune ;  still  less  should  we  share 
with  him  the  heavenly  vision  of  our  youth.  Turn  to  the 
next,  and  again  all  changes.  A  fine  face,  suggestive  of 
insight  and  of  poise,  soberness  that  is  remotely  suggestive  of 
pathos,  and  the  certain  guarantee  of  interpretive  sympathy. 
Most  attractive  of  the  group,  this  face,  this  admirable  por- 
trait, which  we  are  glad  to  identify  as  the  portrait  of  Sandro 
Botticelli.  One  more  remains,  reminiscent  of  the  others, 
yet  so  different  from  them  all.  Notice  the  head  thrown  back, 
the  chest  thrown  out,  the  face,  aristocratic  and  intellectual, 
but  cold  and  unsympathetic.  Here  is  the  representative 
of  that  aristocracy  of  privilege  and  power  which  deepens  the 
rift  betwixt  itself  and  humanity. 
These  men  were  real  men  of  Botticelli's  time.    These  men 


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144  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

had  many-sided  characters  in  which  lesser  traits  often  dis- 
guised their  true  character.  They  had  their  contrasted 
moments  and  conflicting  impulses.  But  Botticelli,  with  a 
magician's  hand,  strips  away  the  obscuring  littleness,  and 
outlines  with  a  few  bold  strokes  the  horoscope  of  their  charac- 
ter. No,  Botticelli  was  no  clumsy  draughtsman.  We  have 
but  to  turn  to  such  works  as  these  to  see  in  him  a  master  of 
his  craft.  Why  then  these  confessedly  unnatural  figures  in 
the  Allegory  of  Spring  or  the  Birth  of  Venus?  Why  this 
poetry  so  weird  that  it  jars  against  the  commoner  sense  ? 

First  of  all,  it  must  be  remembered  that  painting,  with  all 
its  resources  at  this  time,  was  self-limited  in  its  means.  The 
Italian  artists  represented,  and  would  represent,  only  the 
human  figure.  Landscape  scarce  finds  the  slightest  recogni- 
tion in  Florentine  art.  In  Venetian  art  it  was  but  a  decora- 
tive background.  Suggest  Spring  as  a  topic  to  a  modern 
artist  and  what  would  he  think  of  ?  Instantly  the  hazes  and 
mists  of  this  youth  of  the  year,  the  buds  and  blossoms,  the 
song  of  birds  and  the  building  of  nests,  the  myriad  things  by 
which  impersonal  nature  expresses  her  springtime  mood. 
But  all  of  that  was  a  sealed  book  to  the  Florentine  artist. 
The  human  being  was  his  theme,  and  through  this  he  must  in 
some  way  suggest,  if  he  suggested  at  all,  the  mood  that  his 
subject  required.  How  shall  we  express  with  human  figures 
the  mood  of  the  springtime?  Identifications  and  labels  on 
individual  figures  are  worse  than  useless.  Botticelli  would 
fain  give  us  these  figures,  nameless  or  named,  in  such  guise 
as  to  suggest  the  springtime  mood.  That  mood,  difficult  to 
formulate  in  words,  is,  after  all,  easily  defined  to  our  feeling. 
It  is  the  time  when  the  sap  rises  in  the  trees  and  nature  that 
has  drawn  into  her  shell  comes  out  into  the  sunshine.  It  is 
a  time  when  rigidity  again  becomes  fluid,  when  gravitation 
seems  to  relax  her  grip,  and  lightness  takes  the  place  of  heavi- 
ness. It  is  the  time  when  ''the  pulses  leap,  the  feet  have 
wings."    This  mood  Botticelli  would  fain  suggest  to  us,  and 


The  New  Paganism  and  the  Old  Faith          145 

hence  these  figures,  Hghtly  clad,  not  because  the  weather  is 
warm,  but  rather  because  lightness  is  his  theme,  stand  and 
yet  do  not  stand,  but  rather  float,  buoyed  up  by  this  spirit 
of  the  spring.  Not  the  most  natural  way  of  suggesting  this 
theme,  but  the  Florentine  way,  a  theme  which  we  must  catch 
by  sympathy  with  daring  metaphor  rather  than  by  prosaic 
interpretation  of  terms.  And  if  approached  in  that  mood, 
we  can  see  at  a  glance  that  Botticelli's  departures  from 
nature  are  merely  departures  in  the  interest  of  poetic  inter- 
pretation, that  these  figures  which  do  not  stand,  are  figures 
which  should  not  stand,  and  would  belie  their  theme  if  they 
did. 

All  men  fall  into  two  classes,  or,  rather  let  us  say,  they  tend 
toward  one  or  the  other  of  two  extremes,  the  prosaic  and  the 
poetical.     We  have  all  heard  the  familiar  line :  — 

"  Sermons  in  stones  ;  books  in  the  running  brooks," 

but  not  all  have  heard  the  emendation  of  a  hypothetical  critic: 
"Obviously  here  is  a  mistake  due  to  the  mere  shifting  of 
words,  the  accident  of  a  careless  printer.  What  the  poet 
intended  to  write  was  not  '  Sermons  in  stones ;  books  in  the 
running  brooks,'  but  'Sermons  in  books;  stones  in  the 
running  brooks.'  "  How  obvious  when  once  the  suggestion 
is  made  !  There  are  those  who  see  books  in  the  running 
brooks  and  others  who  see  only  stones  in  the  running  brooks. 
Each  sees  something  worth  seeing,  each  has  his  place  in  the 
great  scheme  of  things.  The  one  is  the  scientist,  the  other 
the  poet. 

Most  artists  have  something  in  their  work  for  both  tem- 
peraments. Most  pictures  appeal  to  us  in  a  variety  of  ways. 
For  instance,  we  have  a  picture  of  Washington  crossing  the 
Delaware.  The  drawing  may  be  indifferent,  the  coloring 
bad  or  the  reverse.  Independent  of  these  considerations 
there  is  the  appeal  to  our  patriotism.  We  are  Americans, 
and  the  memory  of  an  heroic  exploit  in  behalf  of  our  cause 


146  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

appeals  to  our  sympathy.  We  forthwith  decide  the  picture 
to  be  fine,  though  to  a  lover  of  poetry  of  color  and  line  it 
might  be  execrable.  The  writer  once  visited  the  European 
galleries  with  a  little  company  among  whom  was  a  lady, 
singularly  obtuse  to  many  aspects  of  art.  The  great  masters 
made  almost  no  impression  upon  her.  Effort  to  interest 
her  proved  unavailing  and  was  finally  quite  abandoned. 
But  quite  unexpectedly  art  made  its  appeal.  It  was  a 
wretched  picture  scarce  worth  the  name  of  painting,  but  it 
represented  John  the  Baptist  rebuking  Herod  for  taking  his 
brother  Philip's  wife.  The  lady  had  pronounced  sentiments 
on  the  moral  problem  involved,  and  her  heart  instantly  warmed 
to  the  tartan.  Now  to  most  of  us,  art  makes  its  appeal 
largely  by  virtue  of  associations  which,  if  not  extrinsic,  are 
far  from  being  representative  of  the  art  in  question.  Few 
of  us  realize  that  the  pictures  that  we  care  most  for,  are 
pictures  with  which  we  have  made  connection  only  at  the 
outer  edge  of  art's  domain.  The  great  central  interest,  the 
one  recognized  as  supreme  in  that  form  of  art  by  the  con- 
sensus of  human  experience,  we  perhaps  have  ignored  alto- 
gether. 

Botticelli  resembles  certain  poets  in  being  what  we  may 
call  an  utter  artist.  Most  so-called  poetry  is  a  mingling  of 
poetry  and  prose.  In  Botticelli's  art  there  is  no  prose  at  all, 
nothing  that  can  be  ''boiled  down  into  horse  sense."  There 
is  almost  nothing  in  his  work  to  appeal  to  the  prosaic  side  of 
our  nature.  There  is  patriotism,  to  be  sure,  as  when  he 
celebrates  an  achievement  of  Lorenzo  in  his  weird  picture  of 
Pallas  leading  the  Centaur,  but  even  then  it  is  an  indirect, 
metaphorical  allusion  rather  than  a  prosaic  representation, 
and  as  we  come  to  such  pictures  as  the  Allegory  of  Spring, 
which  are  peculiarly  characteristic,  the  importance  of  giving 
ourselves  up  wholly  to  the  extremer  poetical  mood  becomes 
more  apparent.  The  futility  of  dissecting  and  labeling  a 
picture  like  this  may  be  best  suggested  by  similar  attempts 


The  New  Paganism  and  the  Old  Faith         147 

to  interpret  Poe's  Raven  or  Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner. 
The  only  result  is  to  completely  sidetrack  our  inquiry. )  These 
poems  are  poetry  par  excellence,  more  utterly  poetry  than 
anything  in  Tennyson,  though  not  necessarily  more  valuable 
to  us,  perhaps  less  so,  for  that  very  reason.  But, the  only 
interpretation  that  is  possible  is  to  give  oneself  up  to  their 
splendid  rhythm  until,  bit  by  bit,  it  weaves  its  spell  around 
us  and  holds  us  fettered  as  the  Mariner  did  the  wedding 
guest.  To  dissect  and  label  is  simply  to  break  this  rhythm 
and  destroy  it  altogether.  Let  us  therefore,  in  contemplating 
a  picture  like  Botticelli's  Spring,  simply  give  ourselves  up  to 
the  remote  suggestion  of  a  temper  which  all  have  experienced, 
the  beauty  of  which  all  appreciate,  and  which  it  is  plainly 
the  artist's  purpose  to  suggest,  though  his  means  are  not  the 
most  familiar,  or  perhaps  the  best  suited  for  the  purpose. 

The  religious  art  of  Botticelli  is  closely  akin,  however 
different  the  theme.  It  is  significant  and,  to  the  writer's 
mind,  a  wholesome  sign,  that  Botticelli's  Madonnas  have 
become  singularly  popular  in  recent  times.  No  voluptuous 
taste  is  here  suggested,  no  splendid  mundane  beauty,  no  mere 
manifestation  of  maternal  tenderness.  They  are  distinctly 
spiritual.  There  is  an  infinite  delicacy  about  the  finely 
chiseled  features  and  a  pathos  as  exquisite  as  it  is  unob- 
trusive in  the  tender  melancholy  which  just  tinges  face  and 
figure.  Botticelli  is  uniformly  characterized  by  refinement, 
by  poetic  imagination  turning  toward  the  unusual  and  the 
weird,  by  a  fondness  for  haunting  suggestion  which  stimu- 
lates the  mind  to  ceaseless  wonder  but  never  translates  itself 
over  into  scientific  fact. 

There  is  a  striking  significance  which  we  cannot  but  attach 
to  Botticelli's  Birth  of  Venus  (B  167).  The  figure  is  identical, 
not  merely  in  face  and  attitude,  but  even  in  sentiment  expressed, 
with  one  of  the  best  known  of  his  Madonnas,  the  Madonna 
of  the  Lilies.  The  sole  difference  is  that  the  head  is  tipped 
in  the  opposite  way.     Madonna  and  Venus  are  identical,  but 


The  New  Paganism  and  the  Old  Faith         149 

which  ?  Is  the  Venus  a  Madonna  or  is  the  Madonna  a  Venus  ? 
We  can  hardly  hesitate.  This  shrinking  apologetic  creature, 
who  is  wafted  tenderly  toward  the  shore  upon  her  shell,  to  be 
met  by  the  attendant  grotesquely  eager  to  clothe  her  naked- 
ness, is  instinct  with  the  grace  and  delicacy  of  the  artist. 
But  let  us  stop  for  a  moment  and  recall  the  theme  which 
Botticelli  was  ostensibly  trying  to  express.  It  is  in  the 
period  in  which  his  thought  turns  strongly  toward  the  ancient 
poetry.  But  imagine  for  a  moment  a  Greek  Aphrodite 
presented  upon  the  scene  like  this.  The  thought  is  inex- 
pressibly grotesque.  What  does  it  mean  ?  Suppose  we  were 
to  ask  Botticelli,  in  good-natured  criticism,  if  he  really 
thought  that  the  Greeks  conceived  the  scene  like  this.  He 
would  doubtless  have  replied,  with  a  moment's  hesitation, 
"No,  I  don't  suppose  they  did."  "Well,  then,  why  do  you 
so  represent  her?"  To  which  there  could  have  been  only  a 
reply  something  like  this,  "I  wanted  to  make  her  as  beautiful 
as  possible.  She  did  not  appeal  to  me  in  the  other  way." 
Must  we  not  so  read  his  picture  ?  And  what  does  this  mean  ? 
True  artist  that  he  was,  beauty  was  his  goal.  It  was  in  the 
time  of  that  neo-paganism  in  which  there  is  so  much  before 
which  we  would  draw  the  curtain,  a  time  when  we  are  too 
wont  to  say  that  Christianity  was  but  a  fiction  and  had 
taken  no  real  hold  on  life.  Yet  here  is  a  man  actuated  only 
by  the  impulse  to  make  his  Venus  beautiful,  who  endows  her 
with  delicate,  shrinking  modesty  and  is  quick  to  hide  her 
nakedness  from  our  gaze.  Madonna-like  tenderness  and  a 
sensitiveness  unknown  to  classic  thought  is  indispensable  to 
his  ideal  of  beauty.  Surely  the  centuries  of  Christian  tradi- 
tion have  not  been  for  naught.  Conduct  was  pagan  enough, 
but  though  conduct  is  the  goal  of  all  ideals,  ideals  are  always 
more  than  conduct.  It  was  regrettable  that  accepted  ideals 
were  so  Httle  respected  in  life,  but  it  is  significant  that  at 
this  moment  when  Christianity  was  most  disparaged  and  art 
and  thought  turned  most  avowedly  toward  the  imchristian 


150  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

past,  the  artist  who  strove  most  frankly  to  reproduce  the 
poetry  of  paganism  should  have  unconsciously  revealed  how 
helplessly,    hopelessly,    the    world    had    become    Christian. 

Botticelli's  later  years  were  lived  under  the  spell  of  the  great 
magician,  Girolamo  Savonarola.  The  great  preacher  found 
in  this  pagan  poet  of  the  Renaissance  the  most  responsive  of. 
spirits,  and  his  message  wrought  upon  the  romantic  mys- 
ticism of  the  artist  its  indelible  impression.  Unfortunately, 
this  influence  was  too  overwhelming  to  find  expression  through 
his  art.  The  six  years  of  Savonarola's  supremacy  were  not 
favorable  to  artistic  production.  The  Medici  were  not  dis- 
pensing their  largess,  and  devout  Piagnoni  were  not  patrons 
of  art.  The  work  of  all  artists  was  intermittent  at  this  time. 
For  Botticelli  the  intermission  was  well-nigh  permanent. 
The  rare  messages  which  come  to  us  from  that  period  in  which 
he  looked  back  upon  the  great  tragedy  and  listened  to  the 
voice  that  wrought  its  spell,  are  full  of  a  weird  apocalyptic 
symbolism  that  defies  interpretation.  It  was  the  grace,  the 
tender  sentiment,  the  infinitely  expressive  Hne  in  Botticelli's 
art  that  made  him  the  truest  artist  of  this  wonderful  century. 
The  tendency  to  allegory  and  mysticism  always  with  him 
was  the  least  valuable  of  his  powers,  and  with  its  exaggera- 
tion, the  charm  of  his  art  passed  away. 

Contemporary  with  Botticelli  is  Ghirlandajo,  the  garland 
maker,  whose  interest  to  us  in  the  history  of  Florentine  art 
is  not  a  little  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  to  him  was  given  the 
privilege  of  instructing  the  youth  of  Michelangelo.  In 
marked  contrast  to  his  great  poetical  contemporary,  Ghir- 
landajo lacks  at  once  the  dashing  bravado  of  Filippo  Lippi 
and  the  dreamy  poetry  of  Botticelli.  As  we  pass  his  works 
in  rapid  survey,  our  first  impression  is  that  he  is  rather  tire- 
somely  correct,  that  he  never  makes  a  slip  and  never  has  an 
inspiration.  Even  this  uncomplimentary  judgment,  however, 
contains  implied  praise  which  it  is  but  fair  to  recognize.  It 
was  the  task  of  Ghirlandajo  to  formulate  and  systematize 


The  New  Paganism  and  the  Old  Faith         151 

Florentine  procedure  in  painting.  Fra  Lippo,  as  we  have 
seen,  made  great  advances  in  the  matter  of  technique  but  he 
never  was  really  steady  or  reliable.  Ghirlandajo  was  nothing 
if  not  methodic.  The  law  of  linear  perspective,  for  instance, 
that  perspective  which  was  almost  the  sole  reliance  of  Flor- 
entine artists,  was  not  formulated  until  about  Ghirlandajo 's 
time.  The  artists  felt  their  way  slowly  toward  the  formula- 
tion of  certain  laws.  The  lines  of  vision  converge  more  or 
less ;  so  would  run  their  formulation.  It  meant  much  to  the 
science  of  art  to  have  a  law  so  formulated  that  it  became 
mathematical,  so  formulated  that  the  convergence  of  lines 
could  be  scientifically  determined  and  quantitatively  expressed. 
All  that  has  little  to  do  with  art  as  a  thing  of  the  spirit,  but, 
after  all,  it  has  something  to  do  with  it,  for  it  tends  to  remove 
those  oddities  and  unnaturalnesses  which  are  liable  to  dis- 
tract our  attention  in  contemplation  of  the  real  theme  itself. 
It  goes  without  saying  that  Ghirlandajo  invented  nothing 
surprisingly  new.  He  did  not  go  back  and  grasp  the  secret 
of  Masaccio's  open-air  perspective.  He  rather  absurdly 
manifests  the  lack  of  it.  That  is,  he  follow^s  Florentine  pro- 
cedure in  a  matter  of  fact  and  unsubtle  way  For  instance, 
in  one  of  his  famous  frescoes  in  Santa  Maria  Novella  he  intro- 
duces a  long  wall  running  from  front  to  rear  in  his  picture  at 
a  slight  angle  so  that  we  may  note  its  immense  length  and  by 
its  converging  lines  may  appreciate  the  distance,  much  after 
the  fashion  of  Masolino's  arcade,  but  it  has  neither  the 
elegance  nor  the  plausibility  of  the  arcade.  It  is  not  con- 
nected with  any  building  or  with  any  other  wall.  It  serves 
no  purpose  except  that  of  perspective.  It  is  used  with  great 
technical  correctness  but  with  no  feeling  whatever  for  mean- 
ing or  sentiment.  One  can  understand  Michelangelo's  later 
judgment  upon  his  master  which  he  expressed  with  such 
undisguised  contempt.  Imagine  a  huge  wall  running  end- 
wise into  some  picture  of  the  Sistine  ceiling  just  to  give  the 
suggestion  of  perspective  and  depth  1 


152  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

If  we  turn  to  his  portrayal  of  character,  he  is  equally  matter 
of  fact  and  uninspired.  Few  pictures  are  less  soul-stirring 
than  his  Last  Supper,  in  which  the  disciples  and  even  the 
Christ  himself  are  represented  in  a  monumental  dignity  that 
borders  on  stolidity.  There  is  not  the  faintest  touch  of  that 
fine  emotion,  that  deeper  spiritual  passion  which  is  so  insepa- 
rable in  our  thought  from  the  life  of  the  great  Master.  This 
lack  of  inspired  feeling,  on  the  other  hand,  opens  the  door 
wide  to  irrelevancies.  In  his  Adoration  of  the  Child,  the 
Madonna,  a  rather  elegant  society  woman,  goes  properly 
through  the  forms,  while  the  quite  impossible  shepherds,  who 
prove  to  be  Ghirlandajo  and  his  brothers,  are  ostentatiously 
rather  than  devoutly  present.  Other  irrelevancies  are  even 
more  glaring  —  the  preposterous  elegance  of  the  marble 
sarcophagus  which  he  has  wrought  for  the  Child's  manger, 
the  silly,  spiritual  participation  of  his  donkey  and  cow,  and, 
finally,  the  elaborate  architecture  which  fills  the  foreground 
and  background  with  needlessly  abundant  and  irrelevant 
details.     All  this  quickly  arouses  a  feeling  of  impatience. 

If  we  return  to  Santa  Maria  Novella  where  his  great 
frescoes  must  determine  his  title  to  fame,  the  same  trait 
appears  in  more  dignified  but  perhaps  more  fundamental 
form.  The  angel  appears  to  Zacharias  in  the  background, 
while  in  solid  ranks  are  lined  up  on  either  side  the  great 
Florentines  of  his  time.  They  are  quite  conscious  of  their 
importance  and  stand  there  in  their  best  clothes  and  their 
best  dignity,  but  completely  intercepting  any  attention  that 
we  might  be  tempted  to  give  to  the  angel  and  Zacharias. 
More  striking  still  is  this  interference  in  the  picture  of  the  Na- 
tivity of  John  the  Baptist  (B  200) ,  where  the  attention  of  nurse, 
mother,  and  all  other  participants  is  completely  absorbed 
by  the  awe-inspiring  presence  of  a  lady  of  the  Tornabuoni 
family  who,  in  queenly  dignity,  accepts  as  of  right  this  uni- 
versal homage,  ignoring  the  child  and  assuming  as  a  matter 
of  course  that  we  will  do  the  same.    The  disregard  of  the 


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154  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

alleged  religious  theme  begun  by  Fra  Lippo  is  here  as  com- 
plete as  it  is  in  Botticelli's  Visit  of  the  Magi,  but  without 
the  compensations  which  Botticelli  gives  us,  for  Botticelli 
often  in  such  cases  gives  us  a  group  of  portraits,  always  free 
from  Ghirlandajo's  stage  consciousness  and  so  profoundly 
significant  as  to  largely  compensate  for  the  loss  of  the  religious 
theme,  while  in  other  religious  pictures,  notably  of  the  Ma- 
donna, he  is  profoundly  and  significantly  true.  Not  so  Ghir- 
landajo.  There  is  never  any  wasted  homage  in  his  religious 
themes,  though  they  are  the  only  themes  that  he  treats. 
Ostensibly  religious,  he  is  absolutely  committed,  not  to  the 
poetry  of  paganism  like  Botticelli  in  his  earlier  years,  but  to 
the  matter  of  fact  realism  of  his  time,  and,  withal,  in  these 
scenes,  religious  or  otherwise,  there  is  a  uniform,  monumental 
decorum  which  is  manifestly  perfect  and  often  egregiously 
out  of  place.  It  is  easy  to  dismiss  Ghirlandajo  at  this  point 
as  a  great  painter  who  knew  nothing  of  art. 

But  in  our  very  criticism  there  is  a  suggestion  of  one 
quality  which  must  be  credited  to  Ghirlandajo's  account. 
His  dignity,  his  monumental  decorum,  are  oftentimes  out  of 
place.  They  are  always  fatal  to  a  dramatic  theme ;  they  are 
hardly  more  suitable  in  a  theme  whose  spirit  is  that  of  inti- 
macy and  realism.  But  there  are  certain  great  state  occasions 
in  which  Ghirlandajo's  art  finds  its  appropriate  place.  He 
would  have  been,  of  all  the  Italian  painters,  the  one  best 
suited  to  paint  the  coronation  of  King  George.  The  majesty 
of  perfect  order,  the  beauty  of  formalism  (for  it  has  a  beauty), 
this  was  Ghirlandajo's  theme.  To  it  he  bends  all  the  resources 
of  his  art.  Notice  the  figure  of  Giovanna  Tornabuoni  already 
referred  to.  She  is,  of  course,  not  accessory  to  the  theme. 
The  theme  is  accessory  to  her.  She  is  in  that  sense  absurdly 
out  of  place.  But  she  is  magnificent  in  her  dignity,  and  bears 
well  the  part  which  wealth  and  rank  impose  upon  her.  And 
notice  how  the  details  of  Ghirlandajo's  art  contribute  to  that 
fact.     Just  imagine  her  for  a  moment  without  the  stately 


The  New  Paganism  and  the  Old  Faith         155 

dress  which  she  wears  and  clad  in  the  delicate  draperies  of 
Botticelli,  the  draperies  of  the  Judith,  for  instance.  All  her 
dignity  would  disappear.  She  would  be  totally  out  of 
character.  These  stately  draperies,  which,  by  the  way,  are 
never  hard  and  stiff,  merely  dignified  and  magnificent,  are 
as  appropriate'  to  Ghirlandajo's  great  theme  as  is  Botticelli's 
style  to  his  very  different  temper.  It  is  neither  poetry  in 
lighter  vein  nor  the  deep  voice  of  tragedy  or  passion,  nor  yet 
the  spirit  of  subtle  spirituality  that  Ghirlandajo  is  fitted  to 
express.  But  there  is  a  poetry  none  the  less  in  the  majesty 
of  those  great  formal  occasions  which  life  sometimes  offers. 
For  these  Ghirlandajo  was  suited,  but  these,  alas,  were  not 
the  themes  that  were  popular  in  his  time,  which  inclined 
toward  the  dramatic.  So  his  dignity,  so  often  out  of  place, 
seems  to  us  stilted  and  pompous ;  his  passivity  and  decorum 
under  conditions  of  stirring  passion  seem  to  us  stolidity. 
So  in' some  degree  they  must  be  accounted.  No  man  who 
entered  so  little  into  the  spirit  of  the  themes  which  he  repre- 
sented as  did  Ghirlandajo,  can  be  thought  a  man  of  sab  tie 
insight.  None  the  less,  the  ambition  for  which  he  so  seldom 
found  occasion,  was  a  real  ambition,  and  is  to  be  remembered 
as  one  of  the  contributions  to  Florentine  art. 

But  at  the  last  we  must  repeat  what  we  said  at  first.  Ghir- 
landajo stands  for  the  finished  technique  of  Florentine  art. 
What  had  been  approximated  before,  now  became  final  and 
complete.  The  Florentine  way  of  painting  was  not  the  only 
way  nor  even  the  best  way,  but  such  as  it  was,  Ghirlandajo 
said  the  last  word.  In  him  the  science  of  Florentine  painting 
culminated,  and  with  him  its  career  as  such  terminated. 

But  in  him  the  spiritual  significance  of  Florentine  art 
dwindled  to  the  vanishing  point.  The  travail  and  triumph 
of  the  spirit  which  Florentine  art  had  striven  to  express,  no 
longer  interest  Ghirlandajo.  The  soul-stirring  message  of 
prophet  and  martyr  he  repeats  perfunctorily  with  the  droning 
intonation  of  the  mass,  and  with  a  mind  all  too  evidently 


156  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

intent  on  ritualistic  decorum,  not  to  say  on  extrinsic  and 
irrelevant  things.  It  is  time  for  a  new  vision  and  a  new 
prophet,  but  the  creative  power  of  both  Ghirlandajo  and  the 
city  that  bred  him,  seemed  spent.  It  is  significant  of  the 
whole  relation  of  things  that  both  Leonardo  and  Ghirlan- 
dajo's  great  pupil  left  Florence  soon  after  Ghirlandajo's 
death,  and  that  they  bore  to  other  centers  the  art  which  she 
had  made  great,  but  which,  in  herself,  she  could  no  longer 
make  greater.  She  had  produced  her  supreme  offspring  and 
had  exhausted  her  energy  in  giving  them  birth. 


CHAPTER  DC 

THE   CONTRIBUTION  OF  PISA 

We  have  now  traced  the  evolution  of  Italian  art  along  a 
single  line  through  the  most  distinctive  of  its  developments. 
We  have  gotten  a  glimpse  of  Greek  painting  as  known  and 
practiced  in  Italy,  of  the  mosaics  that  were  derived  from  it 
either  on  Roman  or  Eastern  soil,  and  finally,  of  the  easy  but 
significant  transition  from  mosaic  to  the  more  facile  painting 
which  better  suited  the  reahstic  purpose  of  the  Renaissance. 
We  have  seen  in  this  early  period  the  slow  shifting  of  emphasis, 
the  swing  of  the  great  pendulum  from  idealized  naturalism 
over  to  decoration,  the  wax  and  wane  of  the  pictorial,  and 
finally  the  triumph  of  naturalism  again  in  the  Renaissance. 
And  last  we  have  noticed  along  with  the  perfecting  of  the 
Florentine  technique,  the  exhaustion  of  the  Christian  theme. 
Florentine  painting  has  run  its  course.  We  stand  at  the 
threshold  of  that  greater  development  which  is  to  give  us 
names  that  are  above  every  name.  But  before  considering 
the  achievements  of  Leonardo  and  Michelangelo,  we  must 
briefly  return  and  follow  the  parallel  but  different  develop- 
ment of  that  sister  art  which  the  Florentine  never  dissociated 
from  painting  in  his  thought,  and  which  was  to  be  the  especial 
expression  of  his  feehng  in  this  latest  period. 

As  stated  in  a  former  chapter,  the  art  of  sculpture  died 
almost  utterly  in  the  middle  ages.  Its  continuance  was 
architectural  rather  than  sculptural  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
word.  Strangely  conventional  representations  of  animals 
and  men  occur  in  the  decoration  of  the  great  mediaeval 
churches  in  Italy,  and  still  more  in  the  north  where,  in  the 

157 


158  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

splendid  Gothic  period,  they  assume  a  character  worthy  of 
consideration  as  sculpture.  But  of  all  the  arts,  sculpture  was 
the  most  impossible  for  a  people  hampered  by  poverty. 
There  is  no  Unk  like  the  mosaics  to  connect  the  sculpture  of 
the  Renaissance  with  that  of  the  Greek.  But  if  the  practice 
of  sculpture  did  not  continue,  the  works  of  sculpture  did. 
Few  have  been  preserved  from  ancient  times,  but  those  few 
have  preserved  more  of  their  original  character  than  could 
have  been  preserved  by  an  art  which  was  dependent  for  its 
continuance  on  the  lessening  skill  of  successive  generations. 
The  revival  of  sculpture,  therefore,  is  not  unnaturally  referred 
to  the  interest  which  was  aroused  by  those  ancient  works. 
That  interest  began  in  the  twelfth  century,  following  the  same 
impulse,  essentially  economic  in  character,  to  which  the 
revived  intellectual  life  of  the  time  is  to  be  referred. 

While  as  yet  the  great  industrial  development  of  Florence 
was  undreamed  of,  commerce  had  raised  the  neighboring 
Pisa  to  wealth  and  power.  The  little  Arno  in  its  sluggish 
lower  course,  afforded  the  shallow  access  to  the  mainland 
which  the  small  craft  of  the  time  required,  an  access  much 
prized  on  this  seldom  indented  coast.  Pisan  architecture  is  a 
monument  to  both  the  wealth  and  the  originality  of  the  city 
at  a  time  when  no  other  city  in  Italy  had  been  awakened  from 
mediaevalism.  The  extensive  use  of  ancient  materials  in 
these  buildings  testifies  also  to  a  lively  consciousness  of  the 
ancient  art,  of  whose  works  in  sculpture  especially,  this 
flourishing  community  seems  to  have  been  the  earliest 
collector. 

It  is  therefore  appropriate  that  the  revival  of  this  art 
should  have  begun  in  Pisa.  Niccolo  Pisano  (Nicholas  of 
Pisa)  is  the  acknowledged  initiator  of  the  movement.  His  work 
is  most  conveniently  studied  in  his  early  masterpiece,  the 
Pulpit  of  Pisa  (B  379),  an  epoch-making  work  at  which  the 
tourist  usually  casts  only  a  hasty  glance  on  his  way  to  do 
homage  to  that  unfortunate  tower  which  would  be  beautiful 


B  379,  Pulpit.    Baptistery,  Pisa.    Niccolo  Hsano,  1206  ?-1278  ? 


i6o  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

if  only  it  did  not  lean.  The  pulpit  is  a  little  hexagonal  en- 
closure resting  upon  pillars  which,  in  turn,  rest  upon  the  backs 
of  lions,  most  unplausible  and  inartistic  of  suggestions,  which 
seems  to  have  entered  Italy  with  the  returning  Crusaders, 
and  to  have  been  derived  originally  from  so  remote  a  people 
as  the  Hittites,  where  it  doubtless  had  a  significance  that  is 
lost  to  us.  It  is  wholly  in  keeping  with  the  weird  fantasy  of 
Asia,  which  forever  separates  its  art  from  that  of  the  West, 
by  a  great  gulf  that  no  man  can  cross.  The  arches  that 
span  these  pillars  are  decorated  with  cusps  which  are  unmis- 
takably Gothic,  though  there  is  nothing  beyond  this  super- 
ficial reminiscence  to  remind  us  that  Italy  was  at  this  time 
beginning  to  feel  the  influence  of  that  far-reaching  art. 
The  enclosure  itself  is  made  by  an  architectural  framework 
with  pillars  at  the  corners  and  panels  at  the  sides.  Archi- 
tecturally it  is  sound,  though  it  cannot  compare  in  grace  of 
proportion  with  Greek  work  or  even  with  some  later  con- 
structions of  the  Renaissance.  But  it  is  the  panels  and  their 
reliefs  that  interest  us  particularly.  We  may  notice  first 
the  Visit  of  the  Magi.  The  Madonna,  quite  unlike  her  former 
Byzantine  self  or  the  later  conception  of  the  Renaissance,  is  a 
queenly  figure,  imbued  rather  with  beautiful  strength  than 
with  tender  sentiment.  She  wears  the  tiara  or  coronet  which 
reminds  us  of  the  classic  Juno  but  which  does  not  recur  in 
Christian  art.  Altogether,  she  is  queenly  and  magnificent 
rather  than  distinctively  Christian.  The  horses,  with  their 
exaggerated  manes,  the  kneeling  kings  with  their  abundant 
curly  hair,  are  elaborate,  but  ill-proportioned  and  exceedingly 
ill-draped.  It  is  in  this  last  feature  that  Niccolo  especially 
shows  his  limitation.  The  draperies  look  like  wooden  boards 
nailed  on.  They  are  totally  lacking  in  flexibility  and  texture, 
as  well  as  in  grace  and  harmony  of  line.  Turning  to  another 
panel,  the  Presentation  in  the  Temple,  we  see  again  the  short, 
ill-proportioned  figures,  the  heavy,  bushy  hair,  the  powerful, 
queenly  Madonna,  with  little  improvement  in  detail.     Other 


The  Contribution  of  Pisa  i6i 

things  for  the  moment  puzzle  us,  as,  for  instance,  the  old 
man  at  the  right,  who  seems  to  lean  or  half  fall  backward, 
his  heavy  weight  supported  by  a  slender  youth  who  almost 
disappears  beneath  his  elbow.  We  guess  in  vain  for  the  sig- 
nificance of  this  figure. 

But  we  have  only  to  wander  into  the  nearby  enclosure  of 
the  wondrous  Campo  Santo  to  find  our  explanation.  Here 
are  ranged  numerous  sarcophagi  and  other  antiques,  most  of 
which  were  there  in  Niccolo's  time.  On  one  is  represented 
the  myth  of  Hippolytos  and  Phaedra,  a  moment's  glance  at 
which  confirms  Vasari's  statement  that  the  queenly  Madonna 
we  have  noticed  in  Niccolo's  pulpit  was  copied  from  this 
sarcophagus.  Farther  on  is  one  of  the  large  marble  vases  of 
which  the  Romans  were  so  fond,  decorated,  as  usual,  with 
Greek  myths  copied  from  classical  Greek  works,  and  here  is, 
strange  to  relate,  a  Bacchanal  or  ceremonial  revel  in  which, 
along  with  the  piper  and  the  dancing  menad,  we  see  the 
drunken  Silenus,  congenial  to  Roman  taste,  whose  obvious 
need  of  support  explains  the  presence  of  the  youth  already 
mentioned.  Niccolo  has  copied  again,  and  this  time  with 
strange  irrelevancy,  for  the  helpless  figure  in  the  Presentation 
has  no  plausible  explanation.  Plainly  Niccolo  is  interested 
in  good  figures  wherever  he  sees  them,  and  copying  them,  not 
very  skillfully  to  be  sure,  he  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to 
put  them  in  wherever  they  will  fit,  irrespective  of  their  sig- 
nificance. 

The  history  of  the  Renaissance  would  be  a  sorry  one  if  this 
process  had  continued,  but  it  did  not  continue  in  the  work  of 
the  later  sculptors,  nor  even  in  the  work  of  Niccolo  himself, 
whose  later  works,  though  sometimes  less  judiciously  planned 
than  the  Pulpit  of  Pisa,  show  an  improvement  in  detail  and  a 
growing  independence  of  classical  models.  The  great  pulpit 
at  Siena  is  more  ambitious  and  less  well  judged,  particularly 
in  the  fact  that  the  sculptor  has  run  away  with  the  architect, 
for  where,  in  Pisa,  little  pillars  were  placed  at  the  corners, 


1 62  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

statues  have  been  substituted  in  the  larger  work.  It  is  all 
statues,  a  thing  almost  framed  together  out  of  human  figures, 
and  the  panels  crowded  with  vast  numbers  who  are  uncom- 
fortable in  their  suggestion.  But  some  of  the  best  of  these 
figures  show  a  marvellous  improvement  in  draperies.  These 
are  soft,  flexible  and  graceful  in  a  way  that  is  surprising  to  one 
coming  direct  from  the  early  work  in  Pisa.  The  artist  is 
every  inch  a  sculptor,  not  an  architect  or  a  sculptor  decorator 
like  the  maker  of  the  beautiful  pulpit  in  Santa  Croce.  He 
_has  lost  his  sense  of  fitness,  but  he  has  devoted  himself  with 
•unremitting  zeal  to  the  perfecting  of  his  sculptor's  tech- 
nique. 

Better  still  is^  the  wonderful  shrine  of  St.  Dominic  in  Bo- 
logna (B  384)  to  which  we  shall  have  occasion  later  to  refer,  for 
it  had  the  extraordinary  fortune  to  be  begun  by  the  first  sculp- 
tor of  the  Renaissance  and  finished  by  the  last.  This  work  of 
Niccolo  Pisano  remaining  unfinished,  was  continued  by  a 
sculptor  of  the  intermediate  period,  and  finally  finished  by 
Michelangelo  in  his  youth.  It  is  second  to  no  monument 
in  Italy  in  its  interest,  and  possibly  in  its  beauty  as  well. 
How  far  Niccolo  is  responsible  for  this  shrine  it  is  hard  to  tell. 
The  general  conception  of  it  is  in  keeping  with  the  architecture 
of  his  time,  its  pinnacle  being  suggestive  of  the  Gothic  which 
was  in  vogue  in  his  day.  The  one  thing  that  we  can  attribute 
to  him  with  certainty  is  the  decoration  upon  the  sarcophagus 
proper.  Rows  of  figures  are  ranged  around  it  in  much  the 
style  of  the  Roman  sarcophagi,  a  style  not  to  be  recommended, 
but  having  certain  advantages  merely  as  decoration.  These 
figures  are  rather  formal  as  they  stand  in  measured  rows,  but 
what  they  lose  in  flexibility  as  a  company  of  living  beings, 
they  gain  in  architectural  suggestion.  They  make  a  good 
colonnade  if  not  a  good  company  of  men.  Incidentally  they 
lack  subtlety  of  countenance,  but  there  is  much  of  grace  and 
charm  about  them  all.  Altogether,  we  shall  go  farther  and 
often  fare  worse. 


B  384,  Tomb  of  St.  Dominic.    S.  Domenico,  Bologna. 
Niccolo  Pisano,  1206?-1278? 


164  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Niccolo  was  more  than  a  sculptor.  He  was  an  organizer,  a 
leader  of  men.  There  is  abundant  evidence  that  the  creations 
with  which  his  name  is  associated  in  Bologna,  in  Perugia,  in 
Siena,  in  Pisa,  were  not  the  work  of  a  single  chisel.  There  was 
a  company  of  which  he  was  the  undoubted  master,  which 
not  only  increased  the  volume  of  his  output  but  better  pro- 
vided for  the  succession.  There  can  be  no  question  that 
Niccolo  was  very  fruitful  as  the  builder  of  a  school. 

His  son  and  successor,  Giovanni  Pisano,  is  in  some  ways 
even  more  interesting,  though  his  work  is  at  first  less  attractive. 
In  his  there  is  no  copying  of  the  antique.  His  work  would 
have  been  better  and  worse  if  he  had  copied.  Oftentimes 
it  is  atrociously  bad  in  detail,  notably  in  the  Crucifixion,  a 
thoroughly  representative  work.  There  are  mediaeval  man- 
nerisms which  are  at  first  offensively  prominent.  The  terrible 
anatomy  of  the  crucified  figures  indicates  how  far  art  has  to 
travel  before  a  Michelangelo  is  possible.  But  we  must 
beware  of  judging  the  fidelity  and  value  of  art  simply  or 
primarily  by  its  skill.  Giovanni's  skill  leaves  much  to  be 
desired,  but  he  has  the  fire  of  a  true  artist.  There  is  in  his 
work  infinitely  more  of  passion,  earnestness  and  candor  than 
in  the  work  of  Niccolo,  and  it  is  these  things  that  count  in  the 
long  run.  He  never  tucks  in  a  drunken  Silenus  because  he  is 
interested  in  the  figure  and  has  room  for  him.  With  him  it  is 
the  idea  that  counts,  and  he  is  always  true  to  it,  no  matter 
how  helpless  his  grammar  or  his  rhetoric.  In  a  word,  while 
Niccolo  represents  the  first  appearance  of  sculpture  as  a 
technic  art,  inviting  the  attention  of  those  who  have  art's 
message,  Giovanni  is  the  first  who  in  any  large  sense  feels 
that  message.  Less  classical,  less  skillful,  he  is  more  genuine. 
True  art  is  always  born  of  the  life  of  the  time.  Never  can  it 
be  produced  by  imitation,  or  by  the  resurrection  of  dead 
themes  and  vanished  ideals.  And  with  all  the  much-mooted 
influence  of  the  classical,  an  influence  which  was  assiduously 
encouraged  by  the  great  art  patrons  of  the  time,  it  is  doubtful 


The  Contribution  of  Pisa  165 

whether  that  influence  at  any  time  contributed  anything  of 
value  to  the  Renaissance.  The  art  that  we  care  for  is  not 
retrospective.  It  is  the  expression,  oftentimes  imperfect, 
even  helpless,  of  the  ideals  and  passions  of  the  time. 

It  would  be  gratifying  if  we  could  assign  to  Giovanni  Pisano, 
as  a  less  critical  age  has  done,  the  wonderful  sculptures  upon 
the  fagade  of  the  Cathedral  at  Orvieto  (B  400),  but  their 
authorship  is  and  must  forever  remain  doubtful.  Their 
date,  however,  is  approximately  certain.  Whoever  executed 
them,  they  belong  approximately  to  the  period  that  we  are 
considering.  In  their  own  way  they  are  without  a  rival  in 
the  art  of  Italy.  Unlike  the  works  of  Niccolo,  they  do  not 
forget  that  their  purpose  is  decoration.  The  great  flat  surfaces 
that  they  were  called  upon  to  beautify,  are  divided  into 
compartments  by  a  branching  vine  whose  graceful  lines  and 
foliage  are  in  themselves  a  masterpiece;  not  the  slightest 
attempt  at  the  irregularity  of  nature,  no  methodical  scrolls 
like  those  of  the  Later  Renaissance,  merely  a  vine  that  twines 
in  and  out,  always  gracefully,  to  frame  little  spaces  in  which 
the  artist  is  to  execute  the  pictures  in  stone  which  the  taste 
of  the  time  demanded.  And  these  pictures  are  inevitably 
the  Bible  story,  or  rather,  tradition  that  has  gathered  round  it, 
a  story  which  was  still  young  in  art  and  had  the  invigorating 
freshness  which  these  first  vivid  portrayals  inevitably  mani- 
fest. Detailed  analysis  is  unnecessary.  It  is  sufficient  to 
note  the  great  charm  with  which  these  figures,  still  wrongly 
proportioned,  to  be  sure,  but  not  the  less  vivid  and  real, 
perform  their  part  in  the  stories  assigned  them,  the  exquisite 
delicacy  of  the  draperies,  the  grace  with  which  the  angels 
move  with  outspread  wings  and  folded  feet.  The  charm  is 
both  that  of  sculpture  and  of  decoration.  Every  figure  and 
detail  is  beautifully  executed  and  instinct  with  grace  and 
loveliness,  but  the  greater  charm  is  in  the  placing  of  these 
figures  and  the  setting.  It  is  a  case  where  the  frame  is  not 
less  beautiful  and  artistic  than  the  picture.    There  are  no 


F^r' 


■^■v^. ,«      * 


B  400,  Pilaster  at  Extreme  Left  (Detail,  J'acade),  Cathedral,  Or vieto. 
Fourteenth  Century. 


The  Contribution  of  Pisa  167 

more  beautiful  decorations  in  this  first  century  of  the  Renais- 
sance, possibly  none  even  in  the  second. 

It  is  significant  that  the  first  important  work  of  sculpture 
in  Florence  also  bears  the  name  of  Pisano,  —  this  time  Andrea 
Pisano,  who  was  employed  to  make  bronze  doors  for  the  great 
Baptistery  which  now  needed  embellishment  on  account  of 
the  imposing  majesty  of  the  new  Cathedral  opposite.  The 
•Baptistery  is  an  octagonal  building  with  doors  on  three  sides. 
The  front  opening,  that  facing  the  Cathedral,  was  the  one 
destined  to  receive  these  doors,  wooden  doors  still  closing 
the  other  openings. 

Bronze  doors  were  no  new  thing  in  Italy.  We  find  them 
as  far  back  as  Imperial  times.  The  old  Baptistery  of  St. 
John  in  the  Lateran  contains  doors  which  were  taken  from 
the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  in  the  shape  of  great  flat  slabs  of 
bronze.  Doubtless  such  doors  were  common  in  ancient  times. 
They  were  without  decoration,  or  at  best  —  and  there  can 
be  no  better  —  they  were  decorated  with  inlaid  patterns  in 
silver.  This  latter  art,  which  was  an  alternate,  it  would  seem, 
to  decoration  in  relief,  seems  to  have  continued  in  the  Eastern 
Empire.  We  still  have  fragments  of  this  superb  art  which 
perished  with  the  looting  of  Constantinople.  There  is  a 
pair  of  doors  now  religiously  preserved  in  St.  Paul's  without 
the  Walls  at  Rome,  nearly  destroyed  by  the  great  fire  of  a 
century  ago,  which  show  some  feeble  remains  of  this  majestic 
art,  an  art  employed  by  the  Romans  for  the  decoration  of 
bronze  in  every  possible  connection;  witness,  for  instance, 
the  magnificent  platform  candelabrum  in  the  Pompeian 
collection  of  the  Museum  at  Naples.  Other  examples  of 
this  art  are  to  be  noted  in  the  bronze  doors  of  the  Cathedral 
at  Amalfi,  and  still  other  cathedrals  in  Southern  Italy  have 
doors  thus  decorated.  All  of  them  owe  this  decoration  to  the 
influence  of  Constantinople. 

In  the  Western  empire  the  alternate  form  of  decoration 
seems  to  have  triumphed.     Relief  cast  in  bronze  was  cer- 


i6S  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

tainly  of  early  date,  but  with  the  early  devastation  of  Italy 
all  such  forms  of  art  perished.  Bronze  was  peculiarly  sought 
on  account  of  the  value  of  the  metal,  and  classical  examples, 
it  is  needless  to  say,  have  not  survived.  The  poverty  of  the 
devasted  empire  forced  men  to  resort  to  the  humbler  wood 
for  this"  purpose,  and  doors  framed  together  in  the  usual 
fashion  were  universal.  When  wealth  permitted  they  were 
sometimes  covered  with  thin  plates  of  bronze  beaten  out  into 
figures  in  a  rude  form  of  repousee  work.  Such  doors  may  now 
be  seen  in  the  church  of  San  Zeno  at  Verona. 

It  was  an  easy  step  from  this  to  the  casting  of  plates  with 
figures  in  relief  to  be  attached  to  the  wooden  doors  as  before, 
and  finally  to  the  casting  of  solid  doors,  now  governed  in  all 
their  forms  by  ten  centuries  of  tradition.  The  new  bronze 
doors  which  were  made  in  the  tenth  century,  and  again,  be 
it  noted,  by  a  Pisan,  one  Bonanus  by  name,  who  seems  to 
have  worked  all  over  Southern  Italy  and  whose  monuments 
are  found  in  Pisa,  Monreale,  and  elsewhere,  revived  the  art 
of  casting  solid  bronze  doors,  but  in  form  they  are  framed 
together  with  rails,  panels,  nails,  and  moldings,  as  the  wooden 
doors  had  been.  It  had  become  quite  impossible  for  men  to 
realize  that  a  door  was  a  door  unless  it  was  framed  in  this 
fashion.  The  great  conflagration  in  the  Cathedral  of  Pisa 
in  the  sixteenth  century  destroyed  all  but  one  of  these  doors  of 
Bonanus,  which  now  guards  the  east  entrance  usually  entered 
by  the  visitor  (Mi).  It  must  be  remembered  that  these  doors 
antedate  Niccolo  Pisano  and  therefore  are  in  no  sense  to  be 
compared  with  works  of  the  Renaissance.  Their  helplessness 
is  further  to  be  explained  by  the  fact  that  they  were  cast, 
and  that  the  artist  in  all  his  figures  had  to  consider  whether 
a  mould  could  be  made  for  this  figure  or  not.  Smooth  rounded 
forms,  with  a  minimum  of  under  cutting,  seemed  indispensable, 
for  the  art  of  the  bronze  caster  had  not  acquired  that  doubtful 
cleverness  which  now  enables  him  to  cast  the  most  inap- 
propriate forms.    These  doors  furnish  an  excellent  example 


M  1,  Bronze  Doors,  Twelflh  Century,  Cathedral,  Pisa.     Bonanus. 


1 70  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

of  the  compromises  of  the  early  art.     Not  only  are  the 
figures  exceedingly  imperfect,  mere  signs  for  men,  but  all 
other  things  are  confessedly  so.     The  artist  tries  to  make  a 
man  look  like  a  man,  without  much  success,  to  be  sure,  but 
with  obvious  intention.     He  does  not  even  try  to  make  a 
mountain  look  Hke  a  mountain  or  a  temple  look  like  a  temple. 
These  things  he  thinks  of  as  too  large  for  this  purpose,  being 
innocent,  as  indeed  the  bronze  worker  should  be,  of  skill  in 
perspective.     Hence  we  find  him  quite  as  dependent  upon  the 
label  of  his  picture  as  upon  the  picture  itself.     He  is  by  no 
means  sure  that  we  can  guess  the  meaning  without  the  label, 
though  the  subject  is  appropriate  enough.     In  the  Tempta- 
tion, for  instance,  the  "exceeding  high  mountain"  is  the 
merest  mole-hill  and  of  impossible  shape.     Nearby  stands  the 
pinnacle  of  the  temple,  which  is  less  than  a  doll's  house  in 
character.    It  is  difficult  for  us  to  understand  that  the  stories 
thus  represented  in  visual  symbols  have  an  added  freshness 
to  the  spectator.     We  are  so  familiar  with  more  elaborate, 
realistic  presentations  that  as  we  gaze  upon  these,  our  only 
impression  is  that  of  the  grotesque.     We  think  of  them  as 
caricatures,  and  laugh,  where  of  old  men  stood  in  awe  and 
went  away  with  a  feeling  unknown  before,  that  these  persons 
and  incidents  were  real.     The  visual  aid  to  the  mind,  which 
serves  the  purpose  of  one  age,  is  suggestive  to  another  age 
only  of  inadequacy.     The  person  who  smiles  at  the  art  of 
Bonanus  is  voluntarily  interposing  a  great  gulf  between  him- 
self and  this  age,  which  it  should  be  his  purpose  to  understand. 
With  only  such  models  as  these,  Andrea  went  to  work  at  the 
new  doors  which  were  to  be  for  half  a  century  the  wonder  of 
Florence,  and  to  the  end  of  time  one  of  the  masterpieces  of 
the  bronze  worker's  art.    The  doors,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
are  made  upon  the  model  of  the  framed  wooden  door.     This 
model  was  not  discarded  in  bronze  until  the  twentieth  century 
and  then  in  but  a  single  example.     Each  door  has  fourteen  pan- 
els, square,  and  decorated  within  with  a  highly  ornate  and 


The  Contribution  of  Pisa  171 

rather  complicated  moulded  outline  suggestive  of  fine  joiner's 
work.  This  leaves  a  quatrefoil  panel  with  round,  converging 
corners  and  diamond  points  on  the  four  sides,  in  which  must 
be  inserted  his  pictorial  representation.  As  every  Baptistery- 
is  dedicated  to  John  the  Baptist,  the  natural,  not  to  say 
inevitable  theme  was  the  story  of  his  life.  This  occupies 
twenty  of  the  twenty-eight  panels,  the  remaining  eight  at 
the  bottom  being  occupied  by  figures  of  the  cardinal  virtues. 
It  will  be  apparent  at  a  glance  that  Andrea  was  confronted 
with  a  double  problem.  On  the  one  hand  he  must  tell  these 
stories  truthfully  and  in  a  manner  to  explain  their  meaning 
and  suggest  the  appropriate  sentiment.  That  is  what  we 
may  call  the  problem  of  representation.  It  is  the  intellectual 
element  in  art,  generally  the  first  of  which  we  are  conscious, 
but  not  always  the  most  important.  The  other  problem  is 
the  decorative,  how  to  make  these  figures  or  stories  fit  in 
the  rather  exacting  space  which  the  cabinet  maker's  tradition 
had  imposed  upon  him.  We  have  noticed  in  a  former  chapter 
the  influence  of  the  frame  upon  the  arrangement  of  the  pic- 
ture. The  fact  that  a  picture  must  always  have  a  certain 
balance,  not  to  say  symmetry,  is  due  to  the  fact  that  it  is 
placed  in  a  symmetrical  frame  or  setting,  and  the  more 
conspicuous  and  elaborate  this  frame  the  more  exacting  it 
becomes.  A  square  or  oblong  frame  is  the  least  noticeable, 
therefore  the  least  exacting,  a  round  frame  far  more  so,  and 
the  frame  that  Andrea  had  chosen,  more  exacting  even  than 
the  circle  or  any  of  the  usual  forms.  To  make  his  picture 
fit  in  these  frames  and  seem  to  be  in  sympathy  with  their 
character,  is  a  very  different  problem  that  cannot  be  sepa- 
rated from  the  latter.  Both  things  must  be  thought  about 
at  once.  And  then,  finally,  there  is  the  farther  problem  which 
has  to  do  with  the  function  of  the  doors.  The  doors  are 
partitions  whose  purpose  is  to  enclose  a  space.  Their  charac- 
ter as  partitions  must  be  respected  in  the  artist's  thought. 
This,  again,  is  a  principle  of  decoration,  of  adaptation  with 


172  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

which  we  have  become  familiar.  To  all  these  we  must  add 
the  problem  of  his  material,  this  bronze,  uniform  in  color 
and  therefore  giving  him  nothing  of  the  painter's  means  of 
expression.  Moreover,  it  has  to  be  cast,  and  the  process  and  its 
limitations  must  be  borne  in  mind  and  so  considered  that  the 
spectator  will  forget  it.  An  extremely  complicated  problem, 
and  imnecessarily  complicated  in  part  by  his  own  choice. 

Andrea  has  solved  this  problem  in  a  very  simple  way.  It 
is  questionable  whether  a  more  ambitious  scheme  would  have 
produced  better  results.  He  does  not  pay  so  very  much  atten- 
tion to  the  exacting  frame  that  we  have  spoken  of,  but  he  is 
careful  to  use  a  comparatively  small  picture  and  have  it  fill 
only  the  center  of  the  panel.  He  leaves  the  panel  for  the  most 
part  only  a  flat  slab  of  bronze,  which  is  what  it  ought  to  be, 
first  and  always.  The  artist  should  do  nothing  to  make  us 
forget  that  we  are  looking  at  a  door,  and  a  door  ought  to  have 
a  flat  panel  there  precisely  as  the  doors  in  our  houses.  These 
small  scenes,  located  in  the  center  of  the  panel,  are  com- 
paratively out  of  reach  of  the  curves  and  points  of  the  frame 
and  therefore  relatively  free  from  their  dictation,  but  there  are 
nice  little  touches  of  adaptation  just  the  same.  Take  the 
Feast  of  Herod  (B  395).  The  dainty  way  in  which  the  skirt  of 
Salome  curves  out  behind  suggests  a  consciousness  of  the 
large  corner  which  is  there  to  be  filled  and  leaves  it  not  quite 
so  vacant.  If  the  skirt  dropped  straight  down  and  the 
picture  came  to  a  square  corner  there,  it  would  be  much  less 
satisfactory.  Other  things  of  the  sort  may  be  traced  through 
the  whole.  The  artist  shows  a  mild  consciousness  of  this 
problem  of  decorative  composition  and  is  always  true  to  it 
to  the  measure  of  his  powers.  That  is  about  as  far  as  it 
goes.  He  never  has  perspective.  The  buildings  that  it 
would  occasionally  be  convenient  to  put  into  the  background 
are  in  the  same  plane  as  the  figures.  Notice,  for  instance,  the 
absurd  size  of  the  prison.  Brought  into  the  foreground  and 
necessarily  reduced  to  the  scale  of  the  figures  in  order  to  get 


174  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

it  into  the  picture  at  all,  it  becomes  a  mere  symbol.  It  is  a 
thing  which  a  lusty  prisoner  could  carry  away  on  his  back. 
But  it  is  plain  that  this  is  a  limitation.  Sometimes  the  limi- 
tation is  more  apparent,  as  in  the  Baptism  of  Jesus,  where  he 
is  supposed  to  be  standing  waist  deep  in  the  water.  The 
artist  finds  it  quite  impossible  to  show  us  this  river  in  per- 
spective. He  can  do  nothijig  more  than  represent  a  sort  of 
crinkly  effect  round  the  legs  of  the  Christ,  which  we  recog- 
nize as  symbolizing  w^ater,  and  take  the  will  for  the  deed. 
Now  it  is  not  at  all  certain  that  Andrea  would  have  done 
better  to  make  a  more  ambitious  attempt  at  picture.  He 
would  certainly  have  done  better  to  have  avoided  this  neces- 
sity, if  he  had  been  quite  free  to  choose  his  themes,  but 
unfortunately  the  only  themes  men  cared  for  in  this  day  were 
themes  that  only  pictorial  art  could  adequately  express. 
So  he  accepts  the  theme,  represents  the  wonderful  figures  in 
the  foreground  with  great  success  and  power,  and  then 
represents  temples  and  other  unmanageable  things  as  mere 
hints  or  suggestions,  funny  to  us  but  not  in  the  least  to  men 
with  only  the  tradition  of  Bonanus  behind  them.  Their 
one  thought  was,  not  "How  strange  that  he  did  not  do  bet- 
ter," but  "How  marvelous  that  he  did  so  well ! "  And 
marvelous  it  certainly  is.  These  doors,  all  things  con- 
sidered, have  never  been  surpassed.  There  are  perhaps 
better  things  to  do,  indeed,  we  would  like  to  see  some  wealthy 
patron  to-day  revive  the  wonderful  art  of  bronze  inlaid  with 
silver,  flat  surface,  perfect  in  function,  decorated  with  this 
supremely  appropriate  art.  But,  accepting  the  program  of 
the  Renaissance,  with  regard  to  which  no  one  seems  to  have 
hesitated,  it  is  an  open  question  whether,  with  the  themes 
that  the  age  dictated  to  the  artist,  a  better  middle  ground 
could  have  been  found  than  that  chosen  by  Andrea. 

But  we  are  interested  or  should  be,  most  of  all  in  the  spirit 
of  the  man.  In  what  way  does  he  represent  these  stories? 
Let  us  not  for  a  moment  assume  that  they  are  so  hackneyed 


The  Contribution  of  Pisa  175 

as  to  be  of  no  consequence.  They  were  so  to  the  artist  of  two 
centuries  later,  but  not  to  Andrea  or  to  his  age.  They  never 
are  or  can  be,  if  they  are  to  be  the  subject  of  true  art.  With 
what  kind  of  feeling  does  he  enshrine  these  themes  ? 

We  shall  perhaps  divine  this  best  from  such  a  scene  as  the 
Execution  of  John  the  Baptist.  Here  in  front  of  the  tiny 
prison  is  the  Baptist,  kneeling  before  his  executioner,  while 
two  other  soldiers  stand  by,  witnesses  of  the  act.  The  scene 
when  realistically  portrayed,  as  it  would  have  been  by  a 
Rubens,  for  instance,  is  revoltingly  brutal.  The  soldiers, 
properly  conceived,  must  have  been  coarse  and  callous.  How 
impossible  it  seems  to  represent  such  a  theme  in  a  way  to 
appeal  to  our  sympathies !  Yet  this  must  be  done  if  the 
result  is  to  be  art.  It  is  apparent  at  a  glance  that  the  artist 
has  appreciated  this  necessity.  The  soldiers  standing  by 
bow  their  heads  in  an  attitude  that  is  expressive  of  sympathy 
and  grief,  unplausible,  if  you  will,  but  infinitely  grateful. 
They  give  the  key  note  to  the  feeling  which  the  artist  would 
fain  inspire  in  us.  They  are  our  representatives,  our  spokes- 
men, as  it  were,  and  the  brutality  of  a  decapitation  is  lost  in 
the  solemn  pathos  that  attends  the  exodus  of  the  great 
prophet.  In  like  manner,  the  Feast  of  Herod,  undramatic 
and  mild,  if  you  will,  but  dignified,  is  full  of  grace  and  charm. 
All  indicates  that  our  artist  is  refined  and  exquisite  in  his 
feeling,  and  that  all  that  passes  under  his  hand  is  trans- 
figured by  his  refining  touch. 

Now  this  is  not  realism,  it  is  true;  but  unmitigated  reahsm, 
brutal  where  the  reality  is  brutal,  is  riot  art.  We  shall  study 
art  to  little  purpose  if  we  do  not  discover  that  its  guiding 
star  is  not  mere  -reality,  but  beauty ;  beauty,  to  be  sure,  in 
forms  infinitely  varied  and  sometimes  in  their  austerity 
bordering  on  ugliness  and  pain,  but  beauty  always.  There 
is  no  end  of  truth  which  we  contemplate  with  horror,  and 
to  which  we  are,  and  must  forever  remain,  unreconciled. 
The  mere  representation  of  such  truth  will  never  make  art 


176  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

no  matter  how  skillful.  Our  artist  is  deeply  imbued  with 
this  principle,  not  as  a  theory  but  as  an  instinct  as,  in  the 
case  of  the  artist,  it  must  be. 

The  visitor  to  Florence  passes  all  too  lightly  this  wonderful 
creation,  bent  on  the  quest  for  the  more  famous  doors  of 
Ghiberti.  It  is  worth  our  while,  however,  to  stop  and  muse 
for  a  moment  on  the  impression  that  these  doors  must  have 
produced  on  men  who  had  never  seen  anything  better  than 
the  doors  of  Bonanus  at  Pisa.  The  progress  which  they 
indicate  is  almost  incredible.  It  is  a  progress  in  technical 
mastery,  both  of  expression  and  of  decorative  arrangement. 
It  is  a  progress  in  the  direction  of  refinement  and  exquisite- 
ness  of  sentiment.  But  the  artist  is  still  naive  and  childlike. 
There  are  no  astounding  tricks  of  cleverness  to  arouse  our 
wonder,  and  to  divert  our  attention  from  the  story  and  its 
spirit. 


CHAPTER  X 

GHIBERTI,  THE  PAINTER  IN  BRONZE 

For  more  than  half  a  century,  Andrea's  doors  remained 
the  pride  and  glory  of  the  Florentines.     It  was  long  ere  they 
gathered  force  for  a  renewed  effort,  and  then  their  concern 
seems  to  have  been  to  find  a  man  who  could  worthily  duplicate 
the  w^ork  of  Andrea.     It  was  under  the  strictest  conditions 
of  duplication  in  all  essential  particulars  that  they  called 
upon  the  artists  of  Italy  to  compete  for  the  privilege  of 
making  doors  for  the  north  entrance.     They  were  to  be 
framed  in  the  same  way,  and  to  contain  the  same  number  of 
panels,  with  the  same  quatrefoil  outline.     A  trial  panel  was 
to  be  the  test,  and  that  the  comparison  might  be  more  easy 
and  just,  an  identical  subject  was  assigned  to  all,  —  Abraham's 
Sacrifice.     Of  the  numerous  panels  presented  in  this  com- 
petition, but  two  seem  to  have  attracted  much  attention  — 
those  of  Filippo  Brunelleschi   (later  to  be  famous  as  the 
builder  of  the  great  dome  of  the  Cathedral)  and  Lorenzo 
Ghiberti,   known   to   us   almost   solely  in   this   connection. 
These  panels  are  now  preserved  in  the  National  Museum  of 
Florence.     There  is  no  better  task  that  can  be  set  the  student 
of  art  than  to  imagine  himself  one  of  the  Florentine  com- 
mission appointed  to  consider  the  merits  of  these  trial  panels, 
and  to  decide  which  is  best  and  why.     We  know  the  decision 
of  the  Florentines ;  we  can  only  guess  their  reasons.     There 
is  some  doubt  whether  their  reasons  were  the  same  as  ours. 
That  their  choice  was  the  wise  one,  few  will  be  found  to  dis- 
pute, but  we  are  not  so  certain  that  the  outcome  was  alto- 
gether what  they  expected. 

In  comparing  these  two  panels  let  us  again  remember  the 

177 


178  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

complicated  nature  of  the  problem.  We  have  a  story  to  tell 
whose  incidents  and  spirit  must  be  carefully  considered. 
In  turn,  we  have  a  space  to  fill,  and  a  very  exacting  and 
peculiar  space.  And  finally,  we  are  making  a  door  whose 
function  must  not  be  lost  sight  of.  It  is  a  partition,  as  we 
said  before,  movable  but  none  the  less  functioning  as  such. 
We  must  keep  it  a  screen,  flat  and  impermeable  in  thought 
as  in  fact.  And  finally,  we  must  remember  that  when  it  is 
open  we  are  to  pass  by  it,  perhaps  with  draperies  afloat,  and 
that  it  must  not  be  jagged  or  disagreeable  to  contact.  Some 
of  these  considerations  are  very  utilitarian;  others  subtle 
and  idealistic ;  they  are  all  important  and  are  all  appreciated 
in  some  degree  even  by  the  least  analytical  mind. 

Our  story  is  a  highly  dramatic  one.  It  concerns  Abraham, 
whose  devotion  and  trust  in  God  are  in  strange  conflict  with 
his  paternal  instincts.  It  concerns  Isaac,  himself  to  be  sac- 
rificed, and  naturally  unreconciled  to  the  course  of  events. 
It  concerns  Jehovah  and  his  messenger,  the  Angel.  And 
finally,  there  are  servants  mentioned  in  the  story,  but  ob- 
viously and  necessarily  excluded  from  full  participation  in 
the  councils  of  their  master.  The  ass  and  the  ram  play 
subordinate  but  essential  parts  in  the  story.  The  physical 
setting  and  the  problem  which  it  involves  we  have  already 
mentioned. 

Beginning  with  the  decorative  problem,  let  us  see  how  our 
artist  has  arranged  his  picture  and  filled  his  space.  And 
here  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  considering  the  problem 
of  decoration  we  do  not  want  to  think  too  much  about  per- 
sons. It  makes  little  difference  whether  we  are  dealing  with 
persons  or  things.  The  problem  of  filling  the  space  is  a 
problem  of  arranging  the  prominent  masses  which  reflect 
the  light  more  strongly  to  the  eye,  —  the  high-lights,  as  they 
are  appropriately  called.  They  may  be  rocks,  or  trees,  or 
persons.  It  is  with  these  elements  that  we  must  build  our 
picture, .  create  our  lights,  and  fill  our  space. 


Ghibertij  the  Painter  in  Bronze  179 

(B  416)  Turning  to  Ghiberti's  panel  we  notice  one  great  ridge 
or  mass,  perhaps  unpleasantly  prominent,  in  the  shape  of  the 
rocks  which,  beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  comer,  sweep 
in  a  general  direction  to  the  right,  then  curve  downward  and 
then  again  curve  to  the  right.  They  constitute  a  sort  of 
diagonal  from  upper  left  to  lower  right,  not  in  a  straight  Une 
but  in  a  shallow,  sinuous  curve.  This  mass  of  rocks  is  the 
backbone  of  the  picture.  The  next  mass  or  line  we  shall 
find  in  the  body  of  Abraham.  It  makes  connection  in  the 
lower  right-hand  corner  with  the  mass  already  described. 
If  we  begin  there  and  move  upward  we  shall  see  that  it 
branches  off  from  this  great  diagonal  and,  sweeping  in  a 
perfect  curve,  moves  upward  and  then,  ignoring  a  trifling 
break,  passes  on  into  the  figure  of  the  Angel  in  the  upper 
right-hand  corner.  This  superb  curve  that  is  thus  thrown  to 
the  right  of  the  picture  is  unmistakably  intentional,  the  more 
so  as  but  for  the  necessity  of  this  curve,  the  figure  of  Abraham 
would  almost  certainly  have  been  differently  posed.  The 
artist  has  strained  a  point  to  give  this  curve.  This,  there- 
fore, is  our  second  composition  line.  Passing  now  to  the 
other  end  of  our  diagonal,  we  see,  making  close  connections 
with  it  and  dropping  downward,  the  figures  of  the  servants, 
notably  the  one  on  the  left.  This  figure  is  not  so  curved  as 
that  of  Abraham,  but  the  harmony  of  line  is  preserved  by 
the  very  accommodating  w^ay  in  which,  as  we  get  near  the 
lower  comer,  he  puts  one  foot  out  behind.  In  a  general  way, 
therefore,  we  have  a  line  similar  to  the  one  we  have  just 
described  on  the  right,  though  curving  less,  and  crowded 
more  up  toward  the  frame.  So  far  we  have  three  lines,  and 
they  constitute  a  flowing  letter  N  admirably  adapted  to  this 
space.  But  this  letter  N  is  crowded  to  the  left  simply  to 
make  room  for  another  figure  —  that  of  Isaac.  Here  again 
the  artist  carefully  disposes  the  figure  in  such  way  as  to  repeat 
the  great  curve  spoken  of  in  the  right  center.  This,  as  it  were, 
echoes  this  great  fine  of  the  composition,  a  very  character- 
istic method  which  we  shall  find  in  all  Ghiberti's  work. 


B  416,  The  Sacrifice  of  Abraham  (Competitive  Panel), 
Bargello,  Florence. 
Ghiberti,  1378-1455. 


Ghiberti,  the  Painter  in  Bronze  i8i 

Having  noted  these  main  lines,  it  will  be  interesting  to  note 
how  carefully  the  artist  avoids  anything  like  contradictory 
b'nes.  For  instance,  this  theme  permitted  plenty  of  strai^t 
hnes  and  angles,  but  Ghiberti  will  have  none  of  them.  The 
altar  line  offers  a  short  straight  horizontal  which  i^  extremely 
subdued,  but  in  the  donkey  which,  in  the  other  panel,  offers 
the  straight  line  of  his  back,  the  back  is  obscured  behind 
the  figures  of  the  two  servants,  lest  that  straight  line  should 
show,  and  he  turns  his  head  lazily  to  the  right,  thus  throwing 
his  neck  into  a  long  curve  perfectly  harmonious  with  the 
greater  curves  we  have  mentioned.  All  the  minutest  details 
of  this  picture  have  been  carefully  considered  in  this  way. 
Curves  large  and  small  are  everywhere,  straight  lines  nowhere, 
angles  positively  excluded. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  also  the  way  in  which  the  artist 
fills  his  space.  The  lower  corners  are  filled  moderately  full, 
as  the  lower  part  of  a  picture  always  should  be,  while  the  upper 
part  is  less  crowded,  and  yet  all  the  larger  spaces,  that  is,  the 
corners,  are  carefully  filled  and  filled  with  matter  that  is 
relevant  to  the  story,  the  ram  occupying  the  upper  left  hand 
corner  as  he  quietly  rests  upon  the  projecting  cliff,  and  the 
angel  filling  the  corner  to  the  right.  But  the  little  points 
the  artist  for  the  most  part  leaves  unfilled.  They  are  too 
small  to  require  such  attention,  and  any  effort  made  to  fill 
them  would  be  apt  to  call  attention  to  their  existence,  and  so 
to  the  frame,  as  such.     They  can  safely  and  wisely  be  ignored. 

(B  429)  Turning  now  to  Brunelleschi's  picture,  let  us  seek 
again  a  main  line  or  mass.  It  is  difficult  to  pick  out  any  one 
that  is  intentionally  prominent.  We  can  hardly  do  better 
than  to  take  the  figure  of  Abraham  which  is  drawn  in  a  straight, 
semi-diagonal  line  from  the  upper  center  to  the  lower  right- 
hand  corner.  The  other  figures  or  masses  form  a  confused 
set  of  short  and  jerky  lines  interspersed  with  angles.  It  is 
impossible  to  find  in  this  confusion  the  hint  of  a  pattern,  nor 
is  the  frame  very  satisfactorily  filled.     The  lower  corners  are 


B  429,  The  Sacrifice  of  Abraham  (Competitive  Panel). 

Bargello,  Florence. 

Filippo  Brunelleschi,  1377-1446. 


Ghiherti,  the  Painter  in  Bronze  183 

filled  too  full,  the  figures  are  crowded  out  of  the  space  and 
lap  over  and  obscure  the  frame,  a  most  unfortunate  feature. 
The  upper  left-hand  corner  is  occupied  by  the  Angel,  and 
again  seems  inadequate  for  the  purpose,  though  here  it  is 
the  angel  rather  than  the  frame  that  suffers.  The  upper 
right-hand  corner  is  less  filled  and  unfortunately  is  arbi- 
trarily filled,  a  tree  with  no  especial  meaning,  being  requisi- 
tioned for  the  purpose  and  attached  to  the  story  by  a  rather 
gratuitous  flip  of  Abraham's  drapery.  The  drapery  is  far- 
ther called  upon  to  fill  minutely  and  very  arbitrarily  the  little 
diamond  point  to  the  right.  It  is  plain  that  the  decorative 
problem  was  much  better  solved  by  Ghiberti  than  by  Bru- 
nelleschi,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  the  latter  thought  about  that 
problem  at  all.  It  is  probable  that  Ghiberti  thought  about 
it  too  much,  but  we  may  be  perfectly  certain  that  Ghiberti 
is  thinking  about  it,  and  that  the  arrangement  we  have 
spoken  of  is  not  accidental.  Proof  of  this  will  soon  be  forth- 
coming. 

One  thing  more  needs  to  be  noted  before  we  turn  to  the 
intellectual  or  dramatic  side  of  our  problem.  There  is  a 
hint  in  Ghiberti's  work'  of  distant  background,  that  is,  per- 
spective. The  little  ledge  on  which  the  ram  is  resting  seems 
to  extend  a  good  w^ay  back.  What  makes  it  seem  so  we  will 
notice  later,  but  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  that  impression.  It  is 
unmistakable,  too,  that  the  angel  is  coming  in  from  the  back- 
ground in  order  to  avoid  the  very  unfortunate  cramping  of 
Umbs  and  drapery  which  we  see  in  Brunelleschi's  angel,  who 
comes  in  plainly  from  the  left  and  in  the  same  plane  with 
the  other  figures.  We  cannot  avoid  the  impression  that 
Ghiberti  is  reaching  furtively  into  that  background  of  which 
Brunelleschi  has  made  no  use,  and  we  know  what  that  means. 
The  decoration,  before  wx  know  it,  will  grow  into  a  picture, 
if  that  tendency  is  to  be  indulged.  We  must  watch  for  it 
as  we  go  on. 

Dropping  these  problems  of  decoration,  which  of  the  men 


184  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

has  told  the  story  most  forcefully  and  satisfactorily?  We 
can  see  at  a  glance  that  in  Brunelleschi's  work  there  is  a 
vehemence  which  Ghiberti  does  not  manifest,  and  which  in  a 
way  is  highly  appropriate.  If  a  father  were  called  upon  to 
sacrifice  his  own  son,  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  would 
take  a  tremendous  brace,  mental  and  physical,  on  his  part, 
and  such  a  brace  is  suggested  infinitely  more  by  Brunelles- 
chi's rigid  and  angular  Abraham  than  by  the  curving  figure 
that  Ghiberti  has  represented.  Is  it  conceivable  that  a  man 
standing  as  Ghiberti's  Abraham  docs,  would  ever  be  capable 
of  such  an  act?  This  vehemence  is  manifest  throughout. 
The  angel,  for  instance,  who  in  Ghiberti's  panel  comes  in 
majestically  and  quietly  from  the  background  and  stays 
the  action  with  the  divine  message,  in  Brunelleschi's  panel 
rushes  in  at  a  later  moment  and  incontinently  grasps  the 
patriarch  by  the  arm  and  that  not  a  moment  too  soon,  for 
the  knife  is  already  upon  Isaac's  throat.  The  attitude  of 
Isaac,  too,  is  far  more  suggestive  of  the  struggle  of  both 
father  and  son  than  the  serene,  classical  figure  of  Ghiberti. 

The  same  spirit  is  carried  into  unnecessary  detail.  Of 
the  servants,  one  is  pulling  a  thorn  out  of  his  foot  while  the 
other  is  dipping  up  water  to  drink,  and  the  donkey,  with  ears 
laid  back  and  vicious  switch  of  his  tail,  is  disputing  his  right 
to  the  stream.  Even  the  ram,  instead  of  resting  quietly,  is 
scratching  his  head  with  his  hind  foot.  There  is  a  nervous 
activity  of  body  and  mind  in  Brunelleschi's  work  that  need- 
lessly complicates  a  scene  in  whose  central  theme  his  vehe- 
ment intensity  is  appropriate. 

Now,  to  sum  up  our  analysis.  Brunelleschi  is  a  realist 
who  is  thinking  only  of  the  action.  He  is  a  reaUst,  perhaps 
we  must  add,  who  is  not  even  thinking  of  the  beautiful  side 
of  the  action.  To  make  it  intense,  vehement,  truthful,  even 
brutally  truthful,  is  his  care.  That  type  of  realism  has  been 
frequent  enough  in  the  history  of  art,  but  it  was  uncongenial 
to  the  Florentines  and  has  never  been  productive  of  art 


Ghiberti,  the  Painter  in  Bronze  185 

of  a  high  order.  Ghiberti,  on  the  other  hand,  cares  little 
about  historic  verities.  He  has  not  entered  very  deeply  into 
the  spirit  of  his  story,  not  quite  deeply  enough,  perhaps, 
but  he  thinks  a  great  deal  about  his  quatrefoil  pattern,  about 
the  grace  of  his  figures,  preferring  curves,  with  their  inevitable 
suggestion,  to  straight  lines  and  angles  which  are  servants 
to  another  order  of  ideas.  He  is  primarily  a  decorator  and 
an  apostle  of  grace. 

Ghiberti  received  the  commission,  to  the  disgust  of  Bru- 
nelleschi,  whose  disappointment  deepened  ultimately  into 
intense  antipathy  for  his  successful  rival,  an  antipathy 
which  was  later  to  influence  profoimdly  the  destiny  of  another 
great  sculptor  whom  he  chose  as  his  protege.  But  whether 
the  Florentines  recognized  in  these  panels  the  qualities  that 
we  have  mentioned  is  not  so  clear.  There  was  a  tremendous 
bias  in  Florence  at  this  time  in  favor  of  the  classical,  a  word 
ill-defined  but  bearing  w^th  it  something  of  that  magical 
reminiscence  of  the  Greek,  which  was  the  object  of  devout 
if  not  of  intelligent  worship.  It  is  an  open  question  whether 
the  classical  figure  of  Isaac  in  Ghiberti's  panel  did  not  in- 
fluence them  more  than  anything  else.  If  so,  they  were 
deceived,  for  we  never  find  a  classical  figure  in  Ghiberti's 
work  afterward,  scarce  even  the  nude,  so  inseparable  in 
the  thought  of  the  time  from  the  ancient  art. 

(B  418)  But  Ghiberti's  opportunity  was  before  him  and  he 
made  use  of  it  with  a  singleness  of  purpose  that  is  without  a 
parallel.  Twenty-one  years  were  devoted  to  the  great  doors  in 
question,  little  interrupted  by  other  work,  and  these  doors  once 
in  place  were  adjudged  not  only  the  equal  of  Andrea's  but  their 
superior,  a  false  judgment,  perhaps,  but  perfectly  in  line  with 
the  taste  of  the  time.  So  complete  was  Ghiberti's  triumph 
that  these  doors  once  placed  in  the  north  entrance,  it  was 
decided  to  remove  Andrea's  from  their  place  of  honor,  and 
to  place  them  in  the  south  entrance,  where  they  would  per- 
fectly match  the  doors  of  Ghiberti,  and  then  to  have  Ghiberti 


Ghiberti,  the  Painter  in  Bronze  187 

make  another  pair  of  doors  for  the  front  entrance,  giving 
him  thus  the  supreme  honor,  and  freedom  to  fashion  them  as 
he  would.  Upon  these  doors  he  spent  twenty-eight  years 
—  forty-nine  years  in  all.  Seldom  has  a  life  been  so  con- 
centrated, and  seldom  has  concentration  been  so  justified. 

Turning  briefly  to  Ghiberti 's  earlier  doors,  we  note  their 
similarity  to  the  doors  of  Andrea,  but  with  this  important 
difference,  that  the  panels  are  for  the  most  part  more  crowded, 
more  detailed  and  more  ambitiously  pictorial.  The  relief 
is  higher  and  the  panel  surface  much  more  obscured.  It  is 
plain  that  Ghiberti  is  thus  confronted  with  a  problem  of 
decorative  adaptation  in  an  intenser  form.  He  has  not 
evaded  it  as  Andrea  did  in  part. 

In  the  upper  left  hand  door  are  two  panels,  the  significance 
of  which  it  is  impossible  to  over-estimate.  One  represents 
the  Bearing  of  the  Cross  and  the  other  a  companion  panel, 
the  Crucifixion.  Beginning  with  the  latter,  we  note  in  the 
center  (and  it  must  be  remembered  that  we  have  the  same 
qiiatrefoil  frame  as  before)  the  cross  with  the  figure  of  Christ. 
On  either  side  hovers  a  mourning  angel  while  below  sit  two 
figures,  one  with  upturned  face,  the  other  with  bowed  head, 
mourners  at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  Nothing  could  be  more 
simple,  and  yet  upon  this  Ghiberti  has  exhausted  the  pos- 
sibilities of  decorative  art.  In  line  composition  it  so  far 
transcends  the  trial  panel,  that  if  this  were  a  consideration  on 
the  part  of  his  judges  their  expectations  were  more  than  met. 

The  things  which  we  are  about  to  note  are  so  remote  from 
our  thought  in  the  ordinary  contemplation  of  art  that  they 
may  easily  seem  fantastic.  They  are,  on  the  contrary,  con- 
stantly present  in  our  feeling.  If  we  like  a  picture,  it  is  in 
part,  though  all  unconsciously,  because  of  the  things  that  are 
here  so  prominent.  We  do  not  know  that  we  like  it  for  that 
reason.  We  are  very  far  from  analyzing  all  our  feelings. 
To  illustrate,  let  us  take  a  poem  of  which  we  are  very  fond. 
We  admire  it  because  of  the  sentiment  expressed,  so  we  think, 


1 88  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

and  in  part  this  is  true,  but  let  us  transpose  the  words  so  that 
we  break  the  meter  and  destroy  the  rhyme,  inserting  a  syn- 
onym occasionally  for  the  purpose,  and  then  read  it.  We 
have  not  changed  the  sentiment  in  the  slightest  degree,  but 
we  have  nearly  or  quite  destroyed  its  value  as  art.  Then 
for  the  first  time  we  realize  that  we  are  dependent  in  part 
upon  the  rhyme  and  the  meter,  yet  these  were  but  incidental 
elements;  they  add  nothing  to  the  thought.  If  now  we 
take  the  same  poem  and  set  it  to  music  and  it  is  acceptably 
sung  by  a  beautiful  voice,  we  get  a  farther  addition  to  our 
feeling.  Read  the  words  of  a  song  and  we  get  nothing  like 
the  same  effect,  but  again  the  intellectual  element  remains 
unchanged.  No,  it  is  the  very  function  of  art  to  transmit 
a  given  intellectual  content,  transfigured  by  these  sensuous 
elements,  rhyme,  meter  and  melody  in  poetry  and  song,  color 
and  melody  of  line  in  picture,  and  so  on  with  the  rest.  We 
do  not  analyze  these  elements ;  we  feel  them  just  the  same. 
Now,  Ghiberti  has  taken  a  very  simple  story,  familiar  to  the 
humblest  of  his  audience,  and  has  set  it  to  magnificent  music, 
modifying  it,  of  course,  somewhat  for  the  purpose.  The 
rhyme,  meter  and  melody  may  be  traced  something  as  follows: 
First,  the  figure  on  the  cross  is  modified  noticeably  but 
necessarily.  A  figure  so  suspended  would  draw  the  arms 
straight  and  taut  and  these  thus  drawn  would  form,  as 
oftentimes  they  do  in  art,  with  the  cross  piece  of  the  cross,  a 
triangle.  But  Ghiberti 's  music  is  of  the  kind  that  excludes 
the  straight  Une  and  angle,  so  the  arms  are  thrown  into  a 
curve  which  changes  the  whole  spirit  of  the  piece.  Then  the 
drapery  of  the  angel  on  the  right  makes  perfect  connection 
with  the  curve  of  the  quatrefoil  frame,  continuing  that  curve 
on  a  shortening  radius  so  that  the  figure  seems  to  be  the 
beginning  of  a  scroll.  The  angel's  wing,  in  turn  is  a  pre- 
cisely similar  curve,  but  in  the  opposite  direction,  an  opposite 
curve,  each  emphasizing  the  other.  On  the  other  side,  the 
angel  makes  very  different  connection  with  the  frame,  but 


Ghiberti,  the  Painter  in  Bronze  189 

connection  still.  It  is  not  the  continuance  of  a  simple  curve, 
—  Ghiberti  seems  never  to  offset  two  identical  curves,  —  but 
this  time  it  is  a  reverse  curve,  a  sinuous  curve,  such  a  one  as 
we  saw  at  the  outset  in  the  rocks  of  Ghiberti's  trial  panel. 
That  line  is  Ghiberti's  sign  manual,  just  as  distinct  in  his 
art  as  the  round  or  angular  hand  by  which  we  characterize 
a  man's  handwriting.  Every  artist  has  such  a  "hand," 
that  is,  a  distinctive  stroke  by  which  we  can  detect  his  work. 
The  wing  of  this  angel  which  seems  so  perfectly  to  match  the 
one  on  the  other  side  is,  after  all,  quite  differently  placed, 
and  this  time  it  repeats  the  curve  of  the  drapery  instead  of 
reversing  it. 

Let  us  drop  now  to  the  lower  part  of  the  composition. 
The  figure  in  the  left  with  bowed  head  is  curled  up  in  the  round 
corner  of  the  frame.  At  the  right  below,  the  figure  touches 
the  frame  and  then  swings  around  in  a  curve  quite  similar 
to  that  of  the  frame  but  departing  farther  and  farther  from 
it.  This  is  one  of  the  most  frequent  and  fundamental  lines 
in  curvilinear  composition,  —  a  tangential  curve.  On  the 
other  side  we  have  a  different  curve,  the  long  draperies  of 
the  figure,  quite  unnecessary  for  other  purposes,  being 
required  to  give  us  this  compound  curve  which  we  have 
noticed  in  the  angel  on  the  left.  It  is  impossible  too  greatly 
to  admire  the  skill  with  which  the  artist  has  built  his  scene 
with  these  few  simple  lines,  disposing  them  always  with 
reference  to  the  frame  yet  never  with  mechanical  repetition; 
simplicity  itself  yet  the  very  perfection  of  sculptural  music, 
like  some  supremely  beautiful  masterpiece  of  the  great  com- 
posers, inimitable  in  its  beautiful  simplicity. 

The  one  thing  to  be  noted  in  this  is  that  it  is  not  merely  a 
pretty  design,  but  that  in  the  design  the  very  qualities  that 
we  have  considered  are  necessary  to  the  spiritual  effect. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  affecting  representations  of  the 
Crucifixion  that  we  have,  but  the  sentiment  and  the  tender 
pathos  with  which  it  is  suffused  are  due  not  to  any  represen- 


190  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

tation  of  face,  nor  yet  to  dramatic  attitude.  They  are  due 
simply  to  this  rhythm  and  melody  with  which  the  artist 
has  suffused  his  composition.  This  may  perhaps  be  accounted 
the  greatest  masterpiece  of  the  Renaissance  in  the  field  of 
linear  design  adapted  to  the  purpose  of  spiritual  expression. 

The  adjacent  panel  is  different  from  it  in  almost  every 
particular.  There  is  no  such  obvious  pattern  or  design.  The 
composition  is  full  of  delicate  curves,  but  they  are  subordinate 
to  another  purpose.  That  purpose  is  suggested  by  the 
architecture  in  the  background.  We  see  without  difficulty 
that  this  is  a  city  gate  through  which  the  great  procession 
has  emerged,  but  the  important  thing  to  note  is  that  it  is  in 
the  background.  It  looks  some  distance  away,  and  we  have 
no  difficulty  in  assuming  that  it  is  of  large  proportions.  It 
does  not  crowd  up  into  the  foreground  like  the  prison  in 
Andrea's  panel.  And  out  of  this  vast  background  thus 
suggested  comes  this  troop,  easily  thought  of  as  limitless, 
but  actually  containing  only  a  few  figures.  These  figures 
seem  more  numerous  because  they  pass  from  distinctness 
to  vagueness  and  we  partially  lose  sight  of  the  last  ones,  thus 
easily  assuming  that  there  are  more  beyond  which  we  have 
lost  sight  of  altogether.  This  familiar  suggestive  device  is  a 
commonplace  of  the  painter's  art. 

But  it  will  be  apparent  at  a  glance  that,  having  a  back- 
ground like  this  with  things  near  and  far,  it  is  not  easy  to 
make  a  pattern  composition  like  that  of  the  Crucifixion. 
Such  compositions  need  to  be  in  a  single  plane  —  such  at 
least  was  the  feeling  of  the  early  Renaissance.  When  more 
than  one  plane  is  used  it  is  like  putting  up  a  series  of  iron 
gratings  of  different  pattern,  one  behind  the  other.  They 
simply  spoil  one  another.  It  required  the  ingenuity  of 
Raphael  to  solve  this  more  intricate  problem.  Ghiberti 
simply  gives  up  this  attempt  when  he  ventures  upon  the 
other.  The  composition  is  a  satisfactory  one  from  the  pic- 
torial standpoint,  but  it  is  not  in  the  least  like  the  other. 


Ghiherti,  the  Painter  in  Bronze  191 

Here  then  we  have  two  utterly  contrasted  principles. 
In  the  one  panel  we  have  no  background  but  a  beautiful 
decorative  pattern,  studied  with  reference  to  the  surrounding 
frame  and  suited  at  once  to  decorative  and  spiritual  purposes. 
In  the  other  we  have  deep  background  and  a  composition, 
pictorial  rather  than  decorative,  and  in  many  planes,  but  the 
pattern  effect  is  not  attempted. 

Picture  or  decorative  pattern  ?  Which  shall  it  be  ?  Either 
may  serve  the  spiritual  purpose,  may  convey  the  spiritual 
message.  Which,  then,  is  best  suited  to  the  purpose  of  the 
door  ?  There  can  be  but  one  answer,  the  answer  which  the 
thoughtful  student  has  always  given,  though  ambitious  art 
and  admiration  of  skill  have  as  continually  obscured  the 
principle.  The  decorative  pattern  is  the  appropriate  thing 
for  a  door  and  for  a  panel  in  itself  highly  decorative.  Ghiberti 
stands  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  He  may  develop  either 
principle.  We  hope  he  will  develop  the  decorative.  He  did 
develop  the  pictorial.  Even  in  these  first  doors  the  pic- 
torial largely  predominates.  There  are  no  other  panels  like 
the  Crucifixion,  though  there  are  others  embodying  much  of 
the  same  principle. 

(B  420,  B  422,  B  423,  B  424)  As  we  turn  to  the  later  doors,  all 
changes.  It  is  impossible  to  contemplate  these  immortal  crea- 
tions with  a  feeling  of  unsympathetic  criticism.  It  is  with  dif- 
ficulty that  we  keep  our  heads  from  being  turned.  Ghiberti, 
now  wholly  free,  has  flung  out  the  quatrefoil  pattern  with  its 
severe  limitation  upon  pictorial  freedom.  The  twenty-eight 
panels  give  way  to  ten,  much  larger  and  more  readily  used. 
Splendid  decorations  now  enrich  the  massive  frames  of  the 
square  panels  in  which,  with  the  least  exacting  of  settings,  he 
is  free  to  indulge  his  pictorial  instincts.  In  all  Florentine  art 
there  is  nothing  more  wonderful  than  these  pictures,  for  pic- 
tures let  us  frankly  call  them.  Distinctly  the  most  wonderful 
thing  about  them  is  their  perspective,  which  is  always  present. 
Even  in  so  simple  a  panel  as  the  Blessing  of  Jacob,  it  is  easy 


B  420,  East  Doors,  Baptistery,  Florence.    Ghiberti,  1378-1455. 


B  422,  The  Story  of  Abraham  (Fourth  Panel). 

East  Doors,  Baptistery,  Florence. 

Ghiberti,  1378-1455. 


ij  J,  i  iLUL  j.iid  his  Sons.  (Filth  Panel). 
East  Doors,  Baptistery,  Flprenee. 
Ghiberti,  1378-1455. 


B  424,  David  and  Goliath  (Ninth  Panel). 

East  Doors,  Baptistery,  Florence. 

Ghiberti,  1378-1455. 


196  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

to  make  out  six  or  seven  different  planes,  the  figures  being 
graduated  in  size  and  distinctness  in  a  way  to  make  the 
illusion  perfect.  In  others,  like  the  Taking  of  Jericho, 
where  the  city  stretches  off,  miles  and  miles  away,  the  per- 
spective is  bewilderingly  perfect. 

Let  us  inquire  for  a  moment  as  to  the  means  by  which  this 
impression  of  distance  is  secured.  We  recall  that  the  Flor- 
entines knew  substantially  only  linear  perspective.  They 
were  conscious  of  the  meaning  of  converging  lines,  but  that 
more  important  perspective  suitable  for  out  of  door  relations, 
that  atmospheric  perspective  depending  upon  color  and 
haze,  was  discovered  by  Masaccio  alone.  Upon  his  work 
the  later  painters  gazed  admiring  and  mystified.  They  never 
caught  its  secret.  Yet,  astounding  to  relate,  Ghiberti  seems 
to  have  caught  it,  for  the  perspective  we  have  here  is  decidedly 
atmospheric  rather  than  linear.  It  is  not  by  convergence 
of  lines  or  size  that  we  get  the  impression.  We  never  have 
it  more  than  when  we  look  upon  the  city  of  Jericho  where 
size  is  no  safe  guide.  No,  Ghiberti,  denied  the  use  of  color, 
so  indispensable  to  the  painter's  purpose,  merely  by  lowering 
his  relief  and  dimming  his  outlines,  building  upon  the  single 
fact  of  nature's  obliterating  haze,  gives  us  with  magical 
certainty  that  impression  of  distance  which  is  usually  the 
painter's  prerogative.  If  our  standard  of  judgment  is  simple 
skill,  then  this  is  the  greatest  pictorial  art  that  Florence 
ever  produced.    That  of  course  is  not  our  standard. 

But  there  is  much  more  than  perspective.  There  is  a 
tender  grace  and  sympathy  in  these  creations  which  is 
ineffable.  Take  the  individuals,  and  notice  the  meaning  of 
their  attitudes,  the  bowed  figure  of  Isaac  as  he  com- 
missions Esau  to  get  him  the  venison,  it  is  suggestive  of  a 
gentle  dignity  from  which  the  artist  never  far  departs;  or 
again,  the  three  angels,  listeners  to  Abraham's  petition,  it 
is  impossible  to  doubt  the  result  of  a  prayer  so  fervent  and 
addressed  to  beings  so  benignant.    Even  the  least  significant 


Ghiberti,  tJte  Painter  in  Bronze  igy 

of  the  figures  bear  about  with  them  a  grace  that  in  itself  is  a 
sufiicient  reason  for  existence.  We  must  not  for  a  moment 
imagine  that  this  grace  is  idle  or  irrelevant.  It  is  in  this 
grace,  which  is  of  the  spirit  more  than  of  the  flesh,  that  we 
find  the  keynote  to  Ghiberti's  spiritual  interpretation  of  his 
theme.  We  do  not  feel  the  passions  that  momentarily- 
master  the  personalities  in  these  varying  scenes.  Indeed, 
it  must  be  admitted  that  from  first  to  last  he  shows  nothing 
of  the  vehement  realism  of  Brunelleschi  or  the  grander 
dramatic  power  of  Donatello.  His  stories  are  all  set  to 
melody  of  a  single  kind,  written  in  music  of  a  single  key,  but 
such  melody  and  such  music  that  the  most  dogmatic  devotee 
of  realism  feels  Httle  disposed  to  contest  their  claim  to  his 
homage. 

It  is  interesting  to  note,  too,  the  refining  and  deepening  of 
this  spiritual  suggestion  which  has  come  to  Ghiberti  with  the 
years.  In  one  of  the  panels  of  these  later  doors,  —  the  one 
in  which  Abraham  pleads  with  the  angels,  —  Ghiberti 
again  represents  Abraham's  sacrifice.  It  is  in  the  back- 
ground now,  but  if  we  compare  it  with  the  first  we  shall  be 
amazed  at  the  change  which  the  years  have  wrought.  There 
is  nothing  materialistic  here.  Abraham  does  not  pose  in 
arbitrary  curves  and  fix  his  attention  solely  upon  his  awful 
act ;  but,  with  an  upturned  face  that  is  full  of  indescribable 
emotion,  he  welcomes  the  divine  messenger  who  relieves  him 
of  this  terrible  necessity.  Transfigured  at  every  point,  this 
is  the  art  full  grown  which  was  prophesied  in  Ghiberti's 
panel. 

This  is  not  the  thing  to  do  in  bronze.  Ghiberti  is  not  a 
sculptor,  he  is  a  painter  in  bronze.  He  has  not  the  resources 
of  the  painter,  but  he  makes  up  for  the  lack  by  more  than 
the  painter's  skill.  In  conception,  in  transfiguring  sympathy, 
his  work  is  above  all  praise.  He  has  chosen  merely  to  ex- 
press a  supreme  artistic  inspiration  in  an  abnormal  manner. 
The  bronze  worker  should  not  paint;   he  should  not,  with 


1 98  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

half  resources,  venture  into  the  painter's  field  and  strive  for 
those  effects  of  perspective  which  are  appropriate  to  the 
painter's  medium.  Why  not?  Simply  because  that  is  not 
the  line  of  least  resistance,  and  the  line  of  least  resistance  is 
always  the  Une  of  greatest  potential  achievement.  That 
Ghiberti  overcame  insuperable  obstacles  does  not  alter  the 
principle.  The  artist  should  play  from  his  long  suit.  So  will 
he  accompUsh  most. 

But  recognizing  this  principle,  conceding  that  it  is  folly 
and  mischief  to  ignore  it,  let  us  remember  another  principle 
which  alone  can  give  our  criticism  measure  and  ultimate 
meaning.  The  essential  thing  in  art  is,  after  all,  not  medium 
or  manner.  It  is  inspiration  and  spirit.  Ghiberti  violates 
the  canons  of  his  technique,  but  he  is  true  to  the  heavenly 
vision.  It  is  easy  to  say  that  this  is  not  bronze.  It  is 
infinitely  more  important  to  say  that  this  is,  after  all,  art. 
It  behooves  us  to  remember  that  a  later  and  greater  than  he 
once  stood  before  those  gates,  seeing  in  them  a  violation  of 
the  rules  to  which  he  held  most  firmly,  a  man  who  never 
praised  unless  praise  was  inevitable,  who  criticized  freely 
where  criticism  was  due,  and  yet  Michelangelo  said,  "These 
should  be  the  gates  of  Paradise  ! " 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   NEW   SCIENCE 

While  Ghiberti  was  accomplishing  the  impossible  as  a 
painter  in  bronze,  another  sculptor,  destined  to  exert  a  far 
greater  influence  upon  Florentine  sculpture,  was  working 
out  the  sculptor's  problem  in  a  more  normal  manner.  Dona- 
tello  can  never  be  long  dissociated  in  thought  from  Ghiberti. 
At  the  time  that  the  commission  was  granted  for  the  making 
of  the  great  doors,  Donatello  was  still  a  youth  in  his  teens. 
But  for  that,  Ghiberti  might  have  had  a  competitor  that  would 
have  changed  the  history  of  Florentine  art.  He  arrived  on 
the  scene  a  little  too  late,  and  just  in  time  to  be  taken  up 
by  the  disappointed  Brunelleschi  and  pushed  vigorously  to 
the  fore.  Few  men  who  have  wrought  at  the  same  art,  side 
by  side,  have  differed  more  than  Ghiberti  and  Donatello. 
Nor  does  the  older  sculptor  seem  to  have  been  at  all  influenced 
by  the  younger,  as  was  natural  both  on  account  of  the  dif- 
ference in  age  and  the  extreme  concentration  of  Ghiberti's 
work.  The  influence  upon  the  younger  sculptor,  in  turn, 
was  certainly  not  one  of  sympathetic  imitation,  yet  Dona- 
tello's  whole  lifetime  is  explicable  only  with  Ghiberti  in  the 
background  of  our  thought. 

We  can  best  understand  the  contrast  between  the  two 
men  by  comparing  Ghiberti's  St.  Stephen  (B  425),  one  of  the 
few  full  sized  statues  which  he  produced,  with  Donatello's  St. 
George  (B  434).  Both  were  decorations  of  that  strangest  of 
Florentine  churches,  Or  San  Michele,  and  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  same  corner  so  that  the  observer  passes  from  the  one 
to  the  other  with  an  interval  of  but  a  few  steps.  It  is  clear 
from  our  study  thus  far  that  Ghiberti  was  not  primarily  a 

199 


B  425,  St.  Stephen.    Or  San  Michele,  Florence. 
Ghiberti,  1378-1455. 


B  434,  St.  Georgti.    Bargello,  Florence.    Donatello,  1386-1466. 


202  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

maker  of  statues.  We  have  called  him  a  painter  in  bronze. 
How  little  his  peculiar  talent  was  suited  to  expression  in  full 
sized  statues  will  be  apparent  from  this  example.  We  must 
recall  briefly  the  character  of  St.  Stephen,  one  of  the  most  daring 
of  the  figures  that  stalk  across  the  stage  of  the  eariy  Church. 
The  Church  was  peaceable  enough  up  to  his  time.  It  had  won 
the  easy  tolerance  of  the  unsympathetic,  and  was  rapidly 
passing  into  harmless  oblivion,  when  Stephen  adopted  an 
aggressive  campaign  and  began  arguing  his  case  in  the 
synagogues.  He  decidedly  carried  the  war  into  Africa,  with 
the  result  that  might  be  expected.  Brought  up  for  trial 
before  the  Sanhedrin  on  the  convenient  charge  of  blasphemy, 
he  is  given  a  chance  to  state  his  case  and  begins  with  a 
long  account  of  the  history  of  the  Hebrew  people,  which  sud- 
denly ends  as  he  observes  the  hopelessness  of  his  plea,  with 
the  sweeping  condemnation,  "Oh,  Uncircumcised  in  heart 
and  ears !  Ye  do  always  resist  the  Holy  Ghost !  As  your 
fathers  did,  so  also  do  ye !  "  We  all  remember  the  result. 
Perhaps  we  have  appreciated  too  little  the  daring  character 
of  this  youthful  saint.  Certainly  Ghiberti  has  failed  to 
express  it.  The  long,  sweeping  curves  that  he  loves  so  well 
are  not  suited  to  the  expression  of  aggressive  self-assertion. 
The  face  is  gentle,  not  to  say  timid.  It  is  a  figure  instinct 
with  grace  but  utterly  lacking  in  the  great  qualities  of  St. 
Stephen. 

Turning  to  Donatello's  statue  we  have  precisely  the 
character  which  Ghiberti  missed.  Notice  the  poise,  the 
weight  borne  upon  the. right  foot,  throwing  the  body  well 
forward  as  though  for  aggression.  How  different  would  be 
the  attitude  if  he  fell  back  upon  the  other  foot.  He  is  on  the 
aggressive,  not  the  defensive.  The  eyes  gaze  with  piercing 
intensity,  emphasized  by  the  knit  eyebrow.  The  costume 
has  no  long  folds  that  flow  off  into  gentle  curves,  but  is  short 
and  trim  for  action.  His  shield,  with  its  rigid,  straight  lines, 
emphasizes  the  spiritual  temper  of  the  whole.     It  is  the 


The  New  Science  203 

incarnation  of  virile  young  manhood,  in  its  way  a  perfect 
thing.  It  is  not  decoration;  it  is  not  pretty;  it  is  better 
than  either  —  the  beautiful  expression  of  an  eternally  beau- 
tiful thing.  Such  is  Donatello  as  we  know  him  in  his  youth. 
A  number  of  works,  which  we  may  conveniently  group  as  of 
the  first  period,  manifest  this  same  character.  Closely  akin  is 
the  beautiful  Annunciation  carved  in  grey  stone  in  Santa  Croce. 
The  Virgin  here  is  first  cousin  to  the  St.  George,  splendid 
in  wholesomencss  and  youthful  strength.  Still  another  we 
must  account  the  beautiful  terra  cotta  bust  of  St.  Lawrence 
(B  446)  in  the  church  of  San  Lorenzo,  Florence.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  Florence  has  ever  given  us  a  finer  example 
of  manliness  and  candor.  The  upturned  head  is  confident 
and  frank  but  not  unpleasantly  defiant.  The  garment  is 
realistically  rather  than  decoratively  treated.  It  is  perfect 
realism-;  but,  after  all,  realism  which  shows  a  marked  preference 
for  the  things  that  are  really  beautiful.  As  we  gaze  upon 
these  works,  to  which  we  may  add  the  St.  Mark  of  Or  San 
Michele,  praised  by  Michelangelo,  and  perhaps  other  works, 
it  is  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  wholesomencss  and  funda- 
mental character  of  the  new  sculptor's  art.  His  interest  is 
in  character,  not  in  clothes.  He  is  giving  us  prose,  if  you 
will,  rather  than  melodious  poetry^  but  it  is  a  grand  and 
noble  prose  such  as  many  will  prefer  to  lyric  verse. 

But  as  we  go  farther,  it  is  clear  that  our  artist's  emphasis 
shifts.  Take,  for  instance,  the  marble  statue  of  St.  John 
which  is  often  spoken  of  as  one  of  his  masterpieces.  A  master- 
piece it  certainly  is  in  a  way.  The  artist  has  made  a  pains- 
taking study  of  this  lean  and  haggard  youth,  such  a  study  as 
Ghiberti  never  made  or  was  tempted  to  make.  Plainly  it 
interests  him,  but  unless  we  are  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
studio  it  is  a  study  which  we  shall  not  enjoy.  Donatello 
has  chosen  this  subject,  not  because  it  is  beautiful  or  inspiring, 
but  because,  delving  ever  more  deeply  into  the  fundamentals 
of  his  craft,  he  is  interested  in  mastering  more  completely 


B  446,  St.  Lawrence.    Sacristy,  S.  Lorenzo,  Florence. 
Donateilo,  1386-1467. 


The  New  Science  205 


the  anatomy  of  the  human  figure,  and  that  in  different  forms. 
The  comely  draped  figure  of  St.  George  or  of  the  Virgin  of 
the  x\nnunciation  he  has  handled  well  enough,  but  he  realizes 
that  there  are  more  difiicult  problems  and  has  chosen  the 
half  nude  ascetic  for  that  reason.  One  writer  speaks  of  this 
as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  nudes  of  the  Renaissance.  With 
all  deference,  we  beg  to  differ.  One  of  the  most  masterly, 
if  you  will ;  one  of  the  most  interesting ;  anything  but  the 
most  beautiful.  Let  us  not  pervert  the  wholesome  instincts 
of  mankind.  Rude  and  ungainly  figures  like  this  are  not 
beautiful.  They  may  be  beautifully  portrayed,  and  if  por- 
trayal, that  is,  the  problem  of  craftsmanship,  absorbs  all  our 
thought,  then  in  a  sense  this  achievement  may  be  beautiful, 
but  the  beauty  is  technical,  not  natural  or  human.  We  must 
be  on  our  guard  against  the  technical  bias  in  the  study  of  art. 
We  are  reminded  of  the  enthusiast  who  described  the  advan- 
tages of  a  certain  medical  school,  with  "its  learned  faculty, 
its  great  plant,  and  its  magnificent  hospitals  with  their 
treasures  of  disease,''  all  of  it  explicable  enough,  but  implying 
a  point  of  view  which  it  is  neither  possible  nor  desirable  that 
the  layman  should  take.  Donatello  is  getting  interested  in 
the  study  of  anatomy,  and  has  chosen  an  unbeautiful  figure 
for  the  opportunity  it  offers. 

But  wx  shall  go  farther  and  fare  worse.  It  was  in  this 
middle  period  that  Donatello,  already  famed  for  his  early 
work,  was  commissioned  to  prepare  statues  for  the  great 
Campanile  which  goes  by  Giotto's  name.  His  bias  at  this 
period  is  best  indicated  by  the  so-called  King  David  (B  438). 
It  is  with  astonishment  that  we  look  upon  the  figure  that  bears 
this  name,  an  astonishment  which  has  led  some  to  doubt 
whether  the  name  was  intended.  The  guess  has  been  haz- 
arded that  the  statue  was  put  in  a  niche  formerly  occupied 
by  another  statue,  and  that  the  name  was  a  holdover.  But 
to  have  permitted  the  name  was  equivalent  to  having  adopted 
it,  and  Donatello  must  certainly  be  held  responsible  for  the 


B  438,  King  David  (II  Zuccone). 

Campanile  del  Duomo,  Florence. 

Donatello,  1386-1466. 


The  New  Science  207 


name  in  the  one  sense  or  the  other.  Nor  is  it  difficult  to 
see  that  the  name  might  express  his  mood.  Why  should  a 
figure  so  uncouth,  the  very  quintessence  of  the  ugly,  huve  been 
fashioned  to  represent  this  much-beloved  king  ? 

The  answer  becomes  plain  if  we  remember  our  background 
—  Ghiberti,  and  his  hold  upon  the  affections  of  the  Floren- 
tines; for  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  these  two  very 
different  developments  of  sculpture  the  Florentines,  at  the 
time,  unquestionably  cast  in  their  lot  with  Ghiberti.  And 
to  a  man  interested  in  the  study  of  the  nude,  in  the  mastering 
of  the  difficult  problem  of  the  human  figure,  to  a  man  essen- 
tially a  sculptor  of  statues  and  not  of  decorations,  essentially 
realistic  rather  than  poetical,  Ghiberti  was  an  influence  both 
pernicious  and  seductive.  Ghiberti,  as  we  have  seen  in  the 
case  of  St.  Stephen,  cares  little  or  nothing  for  the  historic 
verities,  and  now  that  we  recall  it,  the  great  doors  are  full 
of  like  deviations  from  truth.  Take  the  panel  in  which 
Isaac  gives  his  blessing  to  Jacob.  In  the  center  of  the  picture 
is  the  youthful  Esau  receiving  the  commission  to  go  and  get 
the  venison.  Esau  is  described  to  us  as  a  hairy  savage  born 
out  of  due  season,  in  everything  suggestive  of  the  uncouth, 
yet  here  he  is  represented  with  the  court  dress  and  curly 
locks  of  a  page  of  the  Medici,  graceful  and  charming  but 
about  as  little  of  an  Esau  as  we  could  possibly  imagine.  Now 
to  Donatello,  all  this  prettifying  tendency  of  Ghiberti  was 
rank  heresy.  We  need  not  withhold  our  admiration  from 
Ghiberti  if  we  admit  that  there  was  some  ground  for  his 
feeling.  Art  is  not  mere  truth-telling,  but  it  can  never 
ignore  the  truth  with  impunity.  It  is  not  mere  truth-telling, 
but  in  all  its  telling  there  must  be  truth,  and  in  Ghiberti's 
art  that  truth  was  often  lacking.  This  gulf  between  the  two 
temperaments  would  have  been  less  deep,  however,  had  it 
not  been  that  circumstances  intensified  the  contrast.  On  the 
one  hand  was  Brunelleschi,  continually  irritated  by  Ghiberti, 
with  whom  he  was  unfortunately  associated  in  a  most  inap- 


2o8  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

propriate  art  commission  in  the  pay  of  the  Florentine  state. 
His  influence  cannot  have  been  otherwise  than  disparaging 
to  Ghiberti,  and,  by  so  much,  encouraging  to  Donatello  to 
go  to  extremes  in  opposition.  Brunelleschi,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, was  savagely  truthful,  nervous  and  irascible,  as  mani- 
fested in  every  line  of  his  work.  He  cared  little  for  the 
grace  which  Donatello's  realism  might  sacrifice.  And  to  this 
must  be  added  the  still  more  important  fact  that  these  two 
men,  confident  in  the  rightness  of  their  cause,  saw  the  Floren- 
tines following  their  rival.  There  is  food  for  thought  in 
Donatello's  remark  long  after.  He  had  forsaken  Florence 
for  a  time  and  worked  in  Padua.  When  he  at  last  set  out 
to  return,  he  was  begged  by  the  Paduans  to  remain,  but 
replied,  "No,  you  are  spoiling  me.  I  must  go  back  to  Flor- 
ence, where  men  find  fault." 

It  is  impossible  to  believe  that  Florence  did  not  welcome 
such  a  work  as  the  St.  George,  but  it  is  easy  to  understand 
that  they  may  have  raved  over  it  much  less  than  over  the 
doors  of  Ghiberti,  and  yet  to  Donatello  and  Brunelleschi  it 
seemed  worthy  of  an  infinitely  higher  place.  The  result  was 
that  Donatello  leaned  to  the  opposite  extreme,  insisting  that 
the  correct  rendering  of  fact  was  fundamental  in  art,  and 
beyond  doubt  exaggerating  this  principle,  he  fell  into  the 
pitfall  which  continually  besets  the  realist. 

The  realist  continually  protests  against  the  idealist  that  he 
tells  but  a  part  of  the  truth,  that  he  picks  out  pretty  things 
and  leaves  the  great  world  of  interesting  fact  unexpressed; 
he  should  tell  truth  impartially;  and  insisting  upon  this 
program  he  inevitably  emphasizes  the  omissions.  Certain 
things  have  been  excluded  from  the  beauty  lover's  program 
as  being  uncomely  and  unfit.  The  realist  will  have  none  of 
this,  and  so  espouses  their  cause.  Before  he  is  done  he  has 
all  unconsciously  become  the  special  pleader  of  the  ugly. 
Witness  a  Zola  in  literature.  ReaUsm  has  thus  become 
associated  in  the  popular  mind  with  the  unsightly  and  .the 


The  New  Science  209 


unclean.  Following  this  perfectly  natiiral  line  of  develop- 
ment, Donatello  rapidly  becomes  the  exponent  of  ugliness 
in  art.  We  can  imagine  his  defence  of  the  King  David 
when  asked  if  that  was  his  idea  of  the  king.  How  easy  his 
sneering  reply:  "Oh,  yes,  I  know  what  you  want.  You 
want  a  pretty  man  with  a  crown  on  his  head  and  clad  in 
ermine,  and  on  his  throne !  Kingship  to  you  inheres  in 
paraphernalia.  Is  there  not  kingship  in  character  ?  Do  you 
imagine  that  David  was  merely  a  king  and  not  also  a  person  ? 
Do  you  think  he  always  wore  his  crown?  Can  you  not 
imagine  him  making  himself  comfortable  about  the  house, 
nonchalant  and  neglige  ?  Was  there  not  back  of  all  outward 
symbols  a  personality,  and  that  perhaps  with  its  idiosyn- 
crasies and  unbeautiful  traits  ?"  In  some  such  way  Donatello 
must  have  reasoned.  The  effort  is  to  get  away  from  the 
superficial  and  the  emasculating  tendency,  to  the  fundamental, 
careless  for  the  time  being  whether  it  be  beautiful  or  not. 

Now  the  tendency  just  in  this  form  does  not  give  us  art. 
The  King  David  is  a  masterpiece  of  study  and  of  modeling. 
The  arm  is  magnificent,  the  hand  that  reaches  under  the 
leathern  thong,  the  drapery  that  defiantly  refuses  to  conform 
to  any  scheme  of  decorative  arrangement  —  all  this  is  a 
masterly  study,  but  it  is  not  beautiful,  it  is  not  inspiring,  it 
is  not  in  any  great  sense  significant.  It  is  not  art;  it  is 
merely  sculpture,  a  study  from  the  life  class  dubbed  King 
David  in  defiance.  The  study  is  valuable,  the  reaction 
against  Ghibertiism  is  wholesome,  but  it  is  a  tendency  con- 
tributing to  art,  rather  than  art  itself.  Michelangelo  was 
infinitely  closer  to  Donatello  than  to  Ghiberti,  but  Michel- 
angelo never  would  have  made  this  King  David. 

Unfortunately,  the  tendency  does  not  stop  here.  The  St. 
John  in  the  Baptistery  in  Siena,  and  above  all,  the  impossible 
Magdalen  in  the  Baptistery  at  Florence,  show  to  what 
abysmal  depths  of  ughness  Donatello's  reaction  descended. 
In  this,  all  his  earlier  feeling  for  youthful  beauty,  as  we  see 


2IO  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

it  in  the  St.  Lawrence  or  the  St.  George,  was  utterly  lost. 
The  charm  of  childhood,  which  none  understood  better  than 
he,  the  comeliness  of  youth  and  manly  strength  —  these 
things  were  lost  never  to  return. 

But  fortunately  this  is  not  Donatello's  last  word.  Still 
a  third  p)eriod  is  to  be  noted  —  one  of  abundant  ugliness,  to 
be  sure,  but  no  longer  of  ugliness  for  ugliness'  sake.  In  it 
there  are  some  of  the  grander  elements  of  that  larger  art  of 
which  Ghiberti  never  dreamed  and  which  holds  the  promise 
of  Michelangelo.  He  turns  from  a  study  of  anatomy  and 
meaningless  detail  to  the  study  of  emotion  and  feeling.  It 
is  no  longer  the  human  body ;  that,  once  mastered,  becomes 
merely  incidental  to  a  larger  purpose,  and  that  larger  purpose 
is  life,  with  its  varied  action  and  feeling,  as  an  interpreter  of 
character. 

To  this  period  we  may  assign  the  lovely  pulpit  of  Prato  and 
the  far-famed  Singing  Gallery  (B  439),  once  in  the  Duomo  of 
Florence  and  now  in  its  near-by  Museum.  With  infinite 
sprightliness  these  dancing  genii  race  across  the  scene  of 
action,  not  beautiful,  it  must  be  confessed,  their  faces, 
however  vivacious,  are  totally  without  comeliness  of  feature, 
but  there  is  an  infinite  vitality  to  their  movement  which  in 
itself  is  a  theme  of  beauty.  We  can  imagine  a  dancer  fas- 
cinating us  with  rhythmic  movements  who  would  not  fas- 
cinate us  for  a  moment  by  beauty  of  face.  In  turning  to  this 
larger  theme  Donatello  seems  to  have  outgrown  the  spirit  of 
prejudice,  perhaps  because  he  outlived  the  period  of  Ghiberti 
worship.  Absorbed  in  this  new  and  larger  theme  where  art 
deals  with  a  beauty  that  is  more  than  of  figure  or  face,  he 
again  becomes  an  artist.  Familiar  as  we  are  with  incident 
in  the  work  of  Ghiberti,  there  is  in  his  work  nothing  of  the 
magnificent  vitality  and  energy  which  characterizes  Dona- 
tello in  this  later  time.  Draperies,  too,  no  longer  the  ser- 
vants of  decoration,  become  instinct  with  life  and  motion 
and  serve  the  purpose  of  the  sculptor  in  this  field  where 
nought  else  can  do  their  work. 


03 
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212  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

From  this  representation  of  motion  in  its  manifold  and 
pleasing  characteristics,  it  was  an  easy  step  to  the  dramatic, 
that  is,  the  study  of  passion.  Of  this  we  have  manifold  exam- 
ples, like  the  Passion  of  the  Saviour  in  the  Pulpit  of  San 
Lorenzo  in  Florence,  but  none,  perhaps,  quite  so  expressive 
as  the  wonderful  Feast  of  Herod  (B  436),  a  little  bronze  panel 
on  the  Baptismal  Font  in  Siena.  This  wonderful  font  is  a 
symposium  of  the  work  of  the  best  sculptors  of  the  time, 
including,  with  lesser  names,  panels  by  Ghiberti,  Donatello, 
and  Jacopo  della  Quercia,  the  three  greatest  names  in  the 
art  of  this  century.  We  can  best  appreciate  the  change 
that  Donatello  wrought  in  the  portrayal  of  the  dramatic  by 
comparing  this  scene  with  the  same  theme  treated  by  no 
less  an  artist  than  Giotto.  Giotto  is  anecdotal,  and  in  that 
respect  infinitely  clever,  but  the  deeper  passions  that  make 
the  soul's  tragedy  were  little  to  his  liking  and  quite  beyond  his 
powers.  They  are  now  the  great  theme  of  Donatello.  In- 
stead of  the  orderly  group  sitting  behind  the  table,  as  in  the 
work  of  Giotto  or  Andrea  Pisano,  we  have  the  sudden  disarray 
of  the  demoralized  banquet,  as,  unannounced,  the  soldier 
brings  in  the  head  of  the  dead  prophet.  The  king,  his 
nerves  shattered  with  wine,  gazes  upon  the  face  of  the  man  he 
dreaded,  with  superstitious  horror.  With  dishevelled  hair 
and  forgotten  dignity,  he  shrieks  out  in  terror  like  Macbeth 
at  Banquo's  ghost.  Off  at  the  right  the  guests,  starting  from 
the  tables,  rush  pcU  mell,  yet  after  all,  not  quite  forgetting 
their  character.  The  one  in  the  front  covers  her  face  with 
her  hands  to  shut  out  the  horrid  spectacle  which  she  cannot 
bear,  but  the  one  behind  frightened  and  recoiling,  none '  the 
less  gazes  with  a  curiosity  not  quite  repressed,  at  the  object 
of  her  fear.  Off  to  the  left  children  run  screaming  and 
falling  over  one  another  in  their  effort  to  get  away  from  the 
terrible  sight,  while,  behind  the  board,  —  a  masterly  sug- 
gestion, —  the  queen,  to  complete  the  analogy  with  Macbeth, 
strives  vainly  to  calm  her  frightened  husband  and  to  recall 


B  436,  The  Feast  of  Herod  (Panel,  Font).    S.  Giovanni,  Siena. 
DonateUo,  1386-1466. 


214  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

his  forgotten  dignity.  The  startling  suddenness  with  which 
this  motive  of  terror  is  brought  like  a  thunderbolt  in  among 
this  maudlin  crowd  is  the  very  ideal  of  the  dramatic.  We 
have  had  until  now,  and  shall  have  hereafter,  no  work  more 
dramatically  perfect. 

But  our  artist  is  not  yet  at  the  end  of  his  resource.  In  this 
panel  there  is  a  touch  of  the  art  which  Ghiberti  had  carried 
so  far  but  for  which  Donatello  elsewhere  shows  little  sympa- 
thy, namely,  perspective.  In  an  adjacent  apartment,  seen 
through  the  open  arcade,  are  a  number  of  musicians  who, 
with  unbroken  decorum  (for  they  are  not  privileged  to 
forget  their  discipline),  continue  the  music  which  before  had 
guided  the  dancer's  feet.  Who  knows  what  their  emotions, 
who  knows  how  conscious  they  may  be  of  that  which  dis- 
turbs the  banquet?  They  must  not  show  that  they  feel. 
The  waltz  goes  on,  uninterrupted.  Picture  it  in  your  imag- 
ination. The  dance  suddenly  terminated  by  this  ghastly 
spectacle,  and  then,  in  startling  contrast,  this  same  rippling 
melody  played  as  the  accompaniment  to  this  fearful  scene. 
This  is  a  fine  example  of  the  so-called  dramatic  foil,  the 
heightening  of  effect  by  contrast,  perfectly  natural  in  this 
case,  yet  the  whole  range  of  imagination  could  not  invent  a 
motive  better  fitted  to  emphasize  the  startling  transition. 
In  the  presence  of  these  greater  themes,  how  trivial  seems  the 
loss  of  facial  beauty  or  draperied  grace.  The  artist  has 
opened  wide  the  door  of  new  possibilities  in  art,  a  door 
through  which  a  greater  than  he  was  soon  to  enter. 

It  is  difficult,  as  we  contrast  the  work  of  Ghiberti  and 
Donatello,  to  make  our  sympathies  follow  our  judgment. 
There  is  an  effortless  pleasure  in  contemplating  the  lovely 
panels  of  Ghiberti  which  appeals  not  only  to  our  love  of 
beauty  but  to  our  love  of  indolence  and  ease.  There  is  a 
forbidding  ruggedness  about  the  pathway  over  which  Dona- 
tello would  lead  us  that  only  the  more  determined  will 
willingly  traverse.    Yet  if  we  reflect  for  a  moment  on  the 


The  New  Science  215 


influence  exerted  by  such  men,  the  superiority  of  Donatello 
can  hardly  be  doubted.  Ghiberti's  work  is  beautiful, 
lovely,  charming,  but  woe  to  that  art  in  the  hands  of  a  weak 
follower,  and  the  follower  is  sure  to  be  weak.  Where  one 
great  man  points  the  way,  hosts  of  Uttle  men  enter.  Ghi- 
berti's art  we  may  accept  without  protest,  but  in  the  hands 
of  his  followers  it  was  both  seductive  and  unsafe,  —  seduc- 
tive because  the  weakest  things  about  it  were  attractive; 
unsafe  because  none  but  Ghiberti  might  maintain  its  charm. 
Under  his  lead  Florentine  art  would  have  inevitably  degen- 
erated into  revolting  insipidity.  Donatello's  King  David 
is  not  beautiful  nor  can  we  accept  it  without  protest,  but  it 
stands  for  deep  study  and  honest  work,  things  needful  to 
the  artist  whatever  his  goal.  The  weak  things  about  it 
are  not  seductive  and  attractive.  There  was  no  danger 
that  Donatello's  followers  would  ever  repeat  the  King  David. 
His  lesson,  so  far  as  they  were  likely  to  learn  it,  is  the  lesson 
of  painstaking  study  and  mastery  of  all  the  facts  of  life. 
That  lesson  was  one  that  Florentine  art,  Hke  every  other, 
needed  to  be  taught  with  all  possible  emphasis.  But  there 
is  no  danger  in  the  long  run  that  out  of  this  vast  repertory 
the  artist  will  persist  in  choosing  the  vulgar  and  unbeautiful. 
It  was  the  salvation  of  Florence  that  at  this  moment  of  Ghi- 
berti enthusiasm  and  the  diversion  of  sculpture  from  its 
normal  channel,  the  powerful  personality  of  Donatello 
appeared  upon  the  scene  to  warn  men  of  the  dangers  of 
superficiality  and  to  urge  upon  them  this  deeper  science  as 
the  condition  of  the  expression  of  the  larger  beauty.  It  is 
Donatello  and  not  Ghiberti  who  guides  the  farther  develop- 
ment of  Florentine  sculpture.  It  is  Donatello  and  not  Ghi- 
berti who  is  the  spiritual  ancestor  of  Michelangelo. 

The  subject  of  Florentine  sculpture  can  hardly  be  closed 
without  a  brief  allusion  to  another  name  which,  but  for  a 
single  work,  and  a  single  personal  association,  might  pass 
unnoticed, — Andrea  Verocchio.  That  single  work  is  the  statue 


2i6  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

of  CoUeoni  at  Venice  (B  493).  That  single  personal  associa- 
tion is  the  tutorship  of  Leonardo.  Sculptor  and  painter 
alike,  but  sculptor  in  all  his  feeling,  his  pictures  are  for- 
bidingly  sculpturesque,  as  notably  the  Baptism  of  Christ, 
the  one  in  which  we  first  detect  the  hand  of  the  more  brilliant 
pupil.  In  sculpture,  too,  wh  e  we  discern  in  his  lesser  works 
the  hand  of  an  expert  technician  and  a  dignified  taste,  we  do 
not  detect  the  imagination  of  a  master.  Of  his  familiar  works 
the  little  fountain  in  the  Court  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  the 
Boy  with  the  Dolphin,  is  graceful  and  pleasing,  not  ill-suited 
to  its  purpose,  but  art  in  lighter  vein.  Or  again,  the  David 
in  the  Bargello,  this  theme  which  was  becoming  the  conven- 
tional test  of  a  sculptor.  Verocchio's  David  is  an  interesting 
study  in  the  figure  of  a  youth  in  that  scrawny  period  of 
adolescence  with  which  all  are  familiar  but  with  which  few 
are  charmed.  It  is  simply  reahsm,  legitimate  but  not  soul- 
stirring.  Plainly  Verocchio  was  interested  in  the  scientific 
problem  involved,  as  was  Donatello  in  his  similar  study  of 
the  Youthful  St.  John.  He  seems  to  have  saved  himself 
for  the  single  great  work  which  is  now  the  unique  glory 
of  Venice.  This  work  of  questioned,  but  hardly  doubtful 
authenticity,  is  easily  first  among  the  equestrian  statues  of 
all  time  so  far  as  they  are  known  to  us.  It  had  been  pre- 
ceded by  Donatello's  great  statue  of  Gattamelata,  the-  first 
great  bronze  of  the  Renaissance,  which  solved  the  difiicult 
problems  of  casting  on  this  large  scale,  much  more  than  it 
solved  the  problem  of  interpretation.  With  this  technical 
problem  out  of  the  way,  Verocchio  was  free  to  give  himself 
to  the  larger  problems  of  art. 

The  statue  is  hardly  to  be  dissociated  from  the  familiar 
anecdote  of  Venetian  craftiness  to  which  its  erection  gave 
rise.  CoUeoni,  a  condottiere  or  hired  commander  and  con- 
tractor for  wars,  had  amassed  a  fortune  in  his  profession, 
and  dying,  bequeathed  this  to  Venice  on  condition  that  an 
equestrian  statue  of  himself  should  be  erected  in  St.  Mark's 


B  493,  Monument  to  Bartolommeo  Colleoni,  Venice, 
Verocchio,  1435-1488. 


2i8  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Square.  This  request  seemed  to  the  Venetians  a  piece  of 
effrontery.  The  greatest  doges,  even  the  great  Dandolo 
himself,  had  not  received  such  an  honor,  and  to  accord  it  to 
this  hireling  was  out  of  the  question.  But,  in  turn,  it  was 
equally  out  of  the  question  to  lose  this  bequest,  and  the 
Venetian  State,  being  the  court  of  last  resort,  decided  that 
the  open  square  in  front  of  St.  Mark's  Hospital,  on  the 
farther  side  of  Venice,  where  no  one  ever  goes  save  to  see 
Colleoni,  might  be  called  a  square  of  St.  Mark's,  and  it  was 
voted  to  accept  the  bequest  and  to  erect  the  statue  here. 
Seldom  has  craft  been  more  worthily  punished.  The  Vene- 
tians have  no  sculpture,  and  their  great  square  lacks  nothing 
so  much  as  a  statue  like  this.  Nor  is  there  in  the  world  a 
statue  more  worthy  of  such  a  setting.  Off  in  a  distant  place 
rises  the  statue  of  Colleoni,  which  even  the  most  superficial 
tourist  goes  to  see.  It  reminds  us  of  the  delayed  justice 
which  the  French  Academy  paid  to  the  eminence  of  Moliere. 
When,  too  late,  they  found  that  they  had  excluded  the  great- 
est of  French  writers  from  their  number,  they  erected  a 
bust,  and  inscribed  beneath  it,  ''Nothing  was  lacking  to  his 
glory.  He  was  lacking  to  our  own."  As  St.  Mark  comes 
from  his  matchless  Square  and  gazes  upon  this  incomparable 
statue  outlined  against  the  blue  sky  far  above  the  surrounding 
squalor,  he  might  well  add,  "Our  great  square  could  add 
nothing  to  his  glory ;  he  could  add  the  crowning  glory  to  our 
square."  It  is  inconceivable  that  the  statue  should  not  even 
now  be  moved  to  the  place  where  both  appropriateness  and 
simple  justice  call  for  its  erection. 

It  is  impossible  to  analyze  this  unique  creation.  The 
condottiere,  it  must  be  remembered,  had  neither  patriotism 
nor  the  love  of  a  great  people  behind  him.  He  was  a  hireling 
and  his  soldiers  were  men  without  a  country.  Only  per- 
sonal force  and  a  genius  for  winning  battles,  whose  booty  his 
followers  were  sure  to  share,  an  unimpeachable  integrity 
which  made  his  word  as  sacred  as  his  bond,  and  then,  always 


The  New  Science  219 


and  above  all,  the  power  to  rule  by  the  simple  force  of  per- 
sonality a  rabble  that  had  power  in  their  hands  and  knew  no 
other  law,  —  such  were  the  fundamental  requirements  for  a 
great  condottiere.  Such  is  the  idea  which  Verocchio  has 
expressed  with  a  force  and  with  a  clearness  that  thrills  us 
through  and  through.  Too  often  an  equestrian  statue,  yes, 
even  Donatello's  Gattamelata,  is  a  weight  borne  by  the  horse 
as  the  sumpter  bears  his  pack.  Here  the  horse  is  but  the 
plaything  of  the  rider's  will.  The  feet  are  J&rmly  in  the 
stirrups,  which  are  thrown  forward  in  powerful  self-assertion. 
The  baton  of  command  is  gripped  firmly  in  the  hand,  and  the 
strong  features  of  the  face  that  come  out  with  piercing  dis- 
tinctness against  the  blue  sky,  betray  a  set  purpose  and  an 
indomitable  will  before  which  the  most  unruly  spirit  must 
quail  in  instant  submission.  There  is  not  in  the  world  a 
more  splendid  adaptation  of  great  means  to  great  ends.  An 
equestrian  statue,  large  and  high-perched  and  out  beneath 
the  open  sky,  cannot  portray  the  gentle  virtues,  —  the 
tenderness  ,and  sweetness  of  character  and  life.  Size  and 
character  and  place  all  call  for  another  theme.  The  theme 
must  be  one  of  majesty  and  power  and  the  treatment  must 
be  heroic.  Never  have  these  conditions  been  met  as  in  the 
CoUeoni.  Verocchio  is  elsewhere  scarce  more  than  a  medi- 
ocrity, an  admirable  technician,  a  faithful  plodder  in  the 
inexhaustible  science  of  his  art.  Only  here,  for  one  moment, 
he  gathered  together  the  resources  of  his  craft  and  the  imagi- 
nation of  a  life-time  into  one  supreme  endeavor.  It  is  worthy 
of  the  teacher  of  Leonardo.  It  is  worthy  of  the  last  predeces- 
sor of  Michelangelo. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LEONARDO,   THE   MAGICIAN   OF   THE   RENAISSANCE 

By  the  superstitious  in  his  own  day,  Leonardo  was  ac- 
counted a  magician,  and  to  a  more  discriminating  posterity 
his  achievements  still  border  on  the  magical.  Vasari  speaks 
of  him  as  the  originator  of  the  ''fourth  or  modern  manner." 
It  is  characteristic  of  Vasari,  with  his  studio  point  of  view,  to 
speak  of  the  transformation  wrought  by  Leonardo  as  a 
change  in  "manner."  The  change  was  in  fact  far  more 
fundamental  than  Vasari  imagined,  affecting  the  very  sub- 
stance of  art  and  transforming  its  ideals. 

But  the  term  modern  is  more  appropriate,  and  in  spite  of 
the  lapse  of  the  years,  it  still  records  our  impression.  This 
ability  to  make  a  continued  impression  of  modernness  is  one 
of  the  best  tests  of  greatness.  Emerson  is  said  to  have  loaned 
a  copy  of  Plato  to  an  old  farmer  and  to  have  asked  later  his 
opinion  of  him.  "Fine,"  was  the  reply.  "He  has  got  some 
of  my  ideas."  Thus  the  truly  great  mind  always  seems,  in  a 
way,  modern.  We  recognize  in  its  outfit  certain  items  famiUar 
to  us,  and  taking  them  to  be  our  peculiar  property,  we  think, 
"  He  has  got  some  of  our  ideas."  It  does  not  always  occur  to 
us  that  our  ideas,  so  far  as  they  are  of  serious  consequence, 
did  not  originate  with  us,  but  are  a  part  of  the  permanent 
things.  The  ideals  of  every  age  are  local  versions  of  eternal 
principles.  He  who  gives  us  these  principles  with  emphasis 
upon  the  local  version,  is  provincial ;  he  who  gives  them  to 
us  with  emphasis  upon  the  principles  is  universal,  or,  as  each 
age  will  say,  looking  at  it  from  the  standpoint  of  its  own 
provincialism,  he  is  "modern." 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      221 

This  is  what  we  mean  when  we  say  that  such  men  as 
Botticelli  and  Ghirlandajo  were  Florentines,  while  Leonardo 
and  Michelangelo  were  world  artists.  Botticelli  was  a  true 
poet,  and  his  grasp  upon  the  principles  of  art  a  very  genuine 
one,  but  he  was  not  able  to  present  these  principles  in  their 
universal  and  permanent  aspect.  He  goes  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  to  find  his  theme,  yet  he  paints  the  Birth  of  Venus  in  a 
way  which  none  but  a  Florentine  could  understand  or  enjoy. 
Leonardo,  on  the  contrary,  knowing  that  the  eternal  things 
are  with  us  always,  seeks  no  classical  theme,  but  takes  the 
one  nearest  to  hand,  yet  so  presents  it  that  a  Greek  or  an 
Englishman  would  claim  him  for  his  own.  This,  then,  is 
the  significance  of  the  age  which  we  have  now  reached,  and 
of  the  great  personalities  who  are  its  representatives.  It  was 
the  age  in  which  men  separated  the  eternal  from  the  transi- 
tory and  local,  the  age  in  which  art  ceased  to  be  Florentine 
and  became  world  art.  Characteristically,  the  little  minds 
of  a  later  time  record  the  event  with  the  complacent  state- 
ment that  now  was  ushered  in  the  ''modern  manner." 

Leonardo,  born  outside  of  Florence  and  out  of  wedlock, 
none  the  less  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  life  in  the  favored 
city  and  of  full  membership  in  a  high  class  Florentine  family. 
His  father,  a  noble  by  birth  and  a  lawyer  of  high  standing, 
married  and  removed  to  Florence  soon  after  his  son's  birth, 
taking  the  son  with  him  and  giving  him  every  advantage 
in  the  way  of  education.  No  moment  could  have  been  more 
favorable  for  the  development  of  the  boy's  remarkable  powers. 
Florence,  long  guided  by  the  far-seeing  policy  of  the  Medici, 
was  now  approaching  her  zenith  under  the  leadership  of 
the  ablest  of  that  remarkable  family.  Their  long  continued 
patronage  of  art  and  letters  had  been  as  discriminating  as  it 
was  munificent,  and  had  now  filled  Florence  with  great  men, 
not  only  in  art,  but  in  philosophy,  in  letters,  in  statecraft, 
in  every  department  of  speculative  and  applied  science,  while 
over  them  all  was  the  incomparable  Lorenzo,  their  master  by 


2  22  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

inherent  right,  astutely  guiding  and  organizing  their  activi- 
ties. If  the  age  had  a  weakness,  it  lay  in  the  very  mul- 
tiplicity of  the  opportunities  thus  presented,  and  the  bewilder- 
ing fascination  of  the  inducements  thus  suddenly  offered  to 
the  inquiring  mind.  The  domain  of  knowledge  had  been 
extended  with  such  unparalleled  rapidity  that  there  had 
scarcely  been  time  to  note  that  it  now  transcended  the  powers 
of  a  single  mind.  It  required  the  sacrifice  of  a  Leonardo  to 
make  the  world  realize  that  the  era  of  specialization  had 
dawned. 

There  was  the  farther  limitation  which  is  apt  to  charac- 
terize periods  of  rapid  development.  These  magnificent 
conditions  were  local  and  unstable.  The  fullness  of  time  had 
come,  but  it  had  come  only  in  spots.  Florence  was  not  the 
world,  and  could  not,  in  the  long  run,  hold  its  own  against 
it.  It  was  the  case  of  Athens  over  again,  a  phenomenal 
perfection  within  a  very  small  area,  surrounded  by  a  com- 
paratively brutal  and  unsympathetic  world.  Civilization 
had  reared  its  structure  to  a  dizzy  height  on  a  comparatively 
narrow  base,  and  collapse  was  inevitable.  The  only  civiliza- 
tion that  can  endure  must  be  a  civilization  approximately  as 
broad  as  the  world.  The  vicissitudes  of  Leonardo's  career 
were  to  prove  how  unstable  was  the  social  order  and  how 
untrustworthy  the  political  organization  which  depended 
for  its  maintenance  upon  the  splendid  diplomacy  of  one 
mind,  a  mind  which  in  the  course  of  nature  could  not  be  sure 
of  a  successor.  It  was  a  period  when  no  city  or  principality 
could  be  sure  of  its  territory  or  its  tribute.  Wars,  petty  but 
destructive  and  demoralizing,  interrupted  industry  and 
wasted  the  resources  which  private  and  princely  patrons 
destined  to  "the  things  that  are  more  excellent."  Of  the 
hundreds  of  vast  projects  which  the  genius  of  the  time  was  so 
fertile  in  conceiving,  only  one  was  carried  through  to  com- 
pletion, saved  from  shipwreck  by  the  lightning  rapidity  with 
which  its  sponsor  sailed,  storm  driven,  past  the  destruction 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      223 

which  yawned  on  every  side.  It  was  an  age  that  planned 
everything,  and  that  completed,  —  the  Sistine  Ceiling. 

Leonardo's  temperament  was  one  which  exaggerated  the 
defects  of  his  age.  Infinitely  restless  and  innovating,  he 
would  have  planned  much  and  finished  little  under  the 
most  favorable  conditions.  As  it  was,  the  versatility  of  his 
nature  worked  in  evil  alliance  with  the  accidents  of  the 
time.  In  periods  of  peace  and  prosperity,  when  powerful 
patrons  urged  him  to  carry  out  his  noblest  projects,  he  was 
following  wandering  fires,  pursuing  inquiries  of  the  pro- 
foundest  import,  but  remote  from  the  work  in  hand,  and 
promising  little  in  the  way  of  immediate  result.  And  when 
at  last  the  much  wandering  mind  returned  to  its  task,  and 
sought  with  all  its  characteristic  impetuosity  the  opportunity 
so  long  neglected,  war  had  come,  his  patron  had  vanished, 
and  opportunity  had  gone  forever. 

The  fact  which  it  is  important  to  bear  in  mind  throughout 
our  inquiry  is  that  Leonardo  was  not  primarily  an  artist,  but 
a  scientist.  This  was  his  own  judgment,  and  one  which 
inquiry  confirms.  Most  of  his  life  was  spent  in  scientific 
investigations,  the  results  of  which  in  the  shape  of  voluminous 
notes,  are  in  large  part  still  preserved  to  us.  During  his 
last  years  his  concern  seems  to  have  been,  not  for  the  many 
art  projects  which  he  had  left  unfinished  or  unbegun,  but 
for  these  notes  which  it  was  his  dream  to  work  up  into  a 
systematic  treatise  as  his  contribution  to  the  world.  In  the 
memorandum  which  he  addressed  to  Duke  Sforza,  his  great 
patron,  commending  himself  to  his  service,  he  dwells  at  much 
length  on  his  accomplishments  in  the  field  of  applied  science, 
touching  but  lightly  on  his  attainments  as  an  artist,  and  even 
here,  primarily  in  the  field  of  sculpture,  because  of  a  pro- 
jected monument  which  the  Duke  was  known  to  have  under 
consideration.  That  Leonardo  is  remembered  not  as  a 
scientist  but  as  an  artist,  is  in  accordance  with  a  seemingly 
universal  rule.     Whenever  an  individual,  a  community,  or  a 


224  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

people,  has  achieved  distinction  in  war,  in  government,  in 
science,  in  commerce,  one  or  more,  and  at  the  same  time  in  art, 
posterity  has  remembered  the  art  and  has  forgotten  or 
minimized  the  other  achievements.  Athens  was  the  great- 
est commercial  power  of  the  ancient  world,  but  we  remember 
only  Homer  and  Plato  and  Phidias.  Goethe  thought  that  he 
would  be  chiefly  remembered  for  his  contribution  to  the 
science  of  optics,  but  the  world  forgets  that  he  ever  con- 
cerned himself  with  science.  The  value  of  science  to  human- 
ity is  incalculable,  but  it  is  significant  that  in  longer  per- 
spective, where  values  are  more  justly  estimated,  it  is  art 
that  the  world  delights  to  honor.  The  theft  of  Leonardo's 
notebooks  would  scarce  have  won  headlines  in  a  paper,  but 
the  loss  of  the  Mona  Lisa  startles  and  grieves  the  world. 

Leonardo  regarded  himself  as  an  engineer,  and  the  chief 
activities  of  his  life  were  in  this  field.  His  attention  was 
devoted  largely  to  hydraulics,  in  connection  with  great 
projects  of  his  various  patrons,  for  the  building  of  canals  and 
kindred  undertakings,  none  of  which  were  destined  to  be 
carried  out.  He  was  scarcely  less  active,  however,  in  mili- 
tary engineering,  though  a  hater  of  war,  while  he  ventured 
even  into  such  untried  fields  as  electricity  and  aeronautics. 
In  this  great  field  of  applied  science  his  mind  was  phenome- 
nally, but  sometimes  trivially  active.  His  inventions  include 
such  familiar  devices  as  the  wheelbarrow  and  the  camera 
obscura,  the  preliminary  to  modern  photography,  but  the 
caprices  of  royal  patrons  diverted  these  great  activities 
into  trivial  channels,  the  devising  of  mechanical  toys  of 
amazing  cleverness  for  the  diversion  of  the  court  and  the 
humoring  of  a  people  not  wholly  supple  to  their  ruler's 
will. 

But  it  was  not  alone  applied  science  which  interested  him. 
He  seems  to  have  reveled  in  the  most  abstruse  studies,  —  in 
astronomy,  physics,  chemistry,  mathematics  and  philosophy. 
To  an  ignorant  world  these  mysterious  pursuits  brought 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      225 

upon  him  the  suspicion  of  magic  and  the  practice  of  occult 
arts,  a  species  of  charlatanry  for  which  he  had  the  most 
absolute  contempt.  He  was  utterly  a  scientist  in  temper, 
not  in  the  least  a  fakir  or  a  dreamer  about  occult  powers. 
His  powers  of  observation  seem  to  have  been  as  eager  and  as 
tireless  as  those  of  Darwin,  but  around  him,  behind,  before, 
on  either  side,  yawned  an  abyss  of  ignorance  and  super- 
stition so  wide  that  the  incomplete  results  of  these  observa- 
tions could  only  be  overwhelmed  and  lost.  Science  had  yet 
long  to  wait  for  her  convenient  season. 

It  is  as  a  scientist  that  Leonardo  enters  the  field  of  art. 
He  seems  never  to  have  executed  any  work  of  art 
for  its  own  sake.  Each  was  an  experiment  in  some  new 
problem  of  art.  So  far  as  these  problems  were  immediately 
relevant  to  art,  problems  such  as  composition,  grouping, 
light  and  shade,  his  contribution  to  art  was  fairly  direct 
and  worthy  of  his  wonderful  powers.  But  remoter  problems 
interested  him,  problems  of  the  chemistry  and  physics  of  art, 
and  that  increasingly  until  at  last  all  interest  in  art  as  such 
seems  to  have  been  lost.  This  is  profoundly  to  be  regretted, 
for  Leonardo's  power  of  psychic  analysis  was  the  profoundest 
and  his  artistic  imagination  the  most  exquisite  that  the 
Renaissance  ever  knew.  Only  twice,  however,  were  these 
extraordinary  powers  unreservedly  devoted  to  the  cause  of 
art.  Of  the  two  .works  thus  produced,  one  has  perished 
utterly,  and  the  other  is  but  the  shadow  of  its  original  self. 

A  still  farther  sacrifice  art  was  called  upon  to  make  to  the 
cause  of  science  in  the  work  of  Leonardo.  In  his  continual 
experiments  with  new  mediums  and  processes,  it  happened 
that  each  one  of  his  pictures  was  painted  in  a  medium  that 
was  untried.  Some  of  these  experiments  were  complete 
failures,  resulting  in  the  entire  destruction  of  the  work. 
Such  was  the  Battle  of  Anghiari,  the  colossal  work  intended 
for  the  Town  Hall  of  Florence.  For  some  unknown  rea- 
son the  artist  was  interested  at  the  time  in  the  phenomena 


226  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

of  color  and  heat,  as  illustrated  in  the  familiar  example  of 
invisible  ink  which  is  made  legible  by  heat.  The  picture 
was  executed  in  the  appropriate  medium  upon  the  wall  of  the 
great  Council  Chamber,  and  then  heat  applied  to  bring  out 
the  color.  Unfortunately,  Leonardo  had  not  considered  the 
difficulty  of  applying  the  heat  evenly  over  so  large  a  surface, 
and  the  picture  was  patchy  and  quite  unpresentable  as  a 
result.  If  Leonardo  ever  contemplated  repeating  the  work 
in  some  more  suitable  medium,  the  project  was  not  carried 
out,  and  so  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  his  contributions 
to  art  was  lost  to  us,  save  for  a  copy  of  a  copy  of  a  small 
portion,  by  Rubens,  a  man  too  much  of  an  artist  himself  to 
follow  faithfully  the  work  of  another  man. 

Scarcely  less  disastrous  was  the  experiment  of  painting 
the  Last  Supper  upon  plaster  in  tempera,  a  variable  medium 
hitherto  used  by  the  Italians  for  painting  on  wood.  The 
greater  clearness  of  color  thus  secured  tempted  Leonardo, 
who  was  never  satisfied  with  the  dull  tones  of  fresco,  and  so 
another  supreme  creation,  this  time  his  masterpiece,  was 
nearly  sacrificed  to  prove  that  tempera  will  not  endure  on 
plaster.  Finally,  all  his  paintings  have  changed  color. 
This  is  due  in  part  to  chemical  reactions  slowly  taking  place 
in  his  untried  mediums,  and  in  part  to  the  use  of  a  dark 
background  which  has  slowly  worked  its  way  through  to  the 
surface.  This  is  a  not  uncommon  phenomenon,  more 
particularly  in  the  oil  painting  of  a  later  day,  but  nowhere 
so  regrettable  as  in  the  work  of  Leonardo. 

Before  turning  to  the  study  of  his  art  as  such,  it  is  well  to 
note  one  personal  characteristic  which  is  ever  present  and 
complicates  all  his  activities,  namely  his  fondness  for  the 
weird,  the  enigmatical  and  the  grotesque.  This  peculiarity 
was  manifested  in  the  most  ordinary  affairs  of  life.  He  was 
left-handed,  but  instead  of  using  his  left  hand  in  the  ordinary 
right-handed  manner,  he  reversed  the  characters,  writing 
from  right  to  left,  so  that  we  must  now  use  a  mirror  to  read 


Leonardo  J  tJte  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      227 

his  writing.  In  his  art  the  same  tendency  is  everywhere 
manifest.  One  of  the  keenest  of  observers  and  perfectly 
able  to  recognize  the  fundamental  and  estimate  it  at  its  true 
value,  he  is  fascinated  with  the  exceptional,  the  odd,  the 
startUng,  the  grotesque.  This  holds  both  for  man  and  for 
nature.  When  he  attempts  a  serious  work,  he  is  enough  of 
an  artist  to  know  that  this  fondness  for  the  grotesque  and 
the  strange  must  be  sternly  subordinated,  but  let  him  drop 
into  art  of  lighter  vein,  let  him  even  turn  from  the  central 
theme  of  his  picture  to  its  accessories,  and  this  passion  for 
the  weird  immediately  manifests  itself.  The  serious  works 
from  Leonardo's  hand  are  few,  but  he  has  left  us  a  long 
series  of  sketches  which  include  the  most  remarkable  carica- 
tures in  the  world.  Tradition  tells  how  as  a  young  man  he 
used  to  stand  in  the  market  place  entertaining  the  peasants 
with  humorous  stories  and  antics  of  every  description  until 
they  writhed  in  contortions  of  laughter,  only  that  he  might 
observe  their  uncouth  faces  in  these  nameless  distortions. 
Certainly  his  caricatures  suggest  some  such  research.  But 
more  significant  is  the  appearance  of  this  tendency  in  the 
background  of  his  serious  works.  Examptes^^are  the  far- 
famed  Mona  Lisa  (C  10),  and  above  all,  the  beautiful  Virgin 
of  the  Rocks  (C  12),  where  the  background  is  the  extreme 
of  eccentricity.  We  shall  see  later  that  in  the  analysis  and 
representation  of  character  itself,  even  of  a  serious  type,  this 
fondness  for  the  unusual,  the  baffling,  the  fugitive,  still 
manifests  itself.  It  is  impossible  to  characterize  this  per- 
sonal eccentricity  otherwise  than  as  a  weakness,  though  there 
is  reason  to  believe  that  in  one  case  at  least  it  has  been 
popularly  accounted  an  excellence  and  reckoned  a  chief 
ground  of  his  fame. 

Turning  now  to  that  phase  of  Leonardo's  manifold  activity 
which  chiefly  concerns  us,  we  have  to  consider  in  what  his 
contribution  to  art  consisted.  He  seems  but  to  have  touched 
art  lightly  in  passing,  yet  by  common  consent  his  was  a  trans- 


C  12,  The  Virgin  of  the  Rocks.    Louvre, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  1452-1519. 


Paris. 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      229 

forming  touch,  the  most  influential  of  any  in  the  history  of 
art  save  that  of  Michelangelo,  and  distinctly  the  most  whole- 
some. Art  learned  from  him  not  only  to  speak  a  new  lan- 
guage, but  to  think  larger  thoughts,  and  was  transformed  in 
its  innermost  being. 

Leonardo's  teacher  in  art  was  Verocchio,  a  man  of  moderate 
achievements  as  an  artist,  save  for  his  one  great  work  in 
Venice  which  had  not  yet  been  executed.  Practicing  both 
the  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture,  his  feeling  was  wholly  for 
the  latter,,  his  conception  of  painting  like  that  of  the  youiiger 
Michelangelo  being  merely  pseudo  sculpture,  that  is,  studies 
in  form  rather  than  in  color,  with  almost  no  conception  that 
any  use  could  be  made  of  lights  and  shadows  except  to  model 
figures.  His  painting  is  best  known  by  a  single  inferior 
picture,  the  Baptism  of  Christ,  whose  fame  rests  solely  on  the 
fact  that  during  his  absence,  he  allowed  the  young  Leonardo 
to  work  upon  it,  and  observing  on  his  return,  the  beautiful 
angel  at  the  left  from  Leonardo's  hand,  he  is  said  to  have 
declared  that  he  would  never  paint  again.  This  promise, 
if  made,  was  undoubtedly  broken,  but  the  story  pithily 
records  the  impression  produced  by  the  work  of  the  young 
artist  in  comparison  with  that  of  his  master  whose  art  he  was 
so  soon  to  make  obsolete.  The  angel  in  question  is  undoubt- 
edly by  Leonardo.  When  we  compare  these  child-like  figures 
and  their  infinite  naturalness  and  charm,  with  the  stately 
functionaries  which  the  older  art  had  employed  to  perform 
this  traditional  service  for  the  Christ,  we  have  a  hint  of  the 
revolution  that  is  impending. 

It  must  be  remembered,  however,  that  Verocchio's  chief 
work  was  as  a  sculptor,  and  that  his  instruction  was  given  in 
this  art  as  well  as  in  painting.  Nor  is  there  any  reason  to 
doubt  that  Leonardo's  aptitude  for  sculpture  was  as  great 
as  for  the  sister  art.  It  is  probable  that  like  Michelangelo 
he  was  especially  endowed  for  this  art  which  seems  to  have 
dominated  the  Florentine  imagination  from  the  first,  and 


230  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

which  is  perhaps  especially  suited  to  the  interpretation  of 
human  character  and  feeling.  It  is  significant  that  both 
of  these  supreme  artists  who  close  the  history  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance,  were  trained  in  both  sculpture  and  painting, 
that  both  were  privileged  to  carry  to  completion  one  supreme 
work  of  painting,  and  that  both  were  prevented  from  carrying 
out  an  even  greater  work  in  sculpture  on  which  they  had  set 
their  hearts.  It  is  possible,  though  we  cannot  prove,  that 
Leonardo  like  Michelangelo,  not  only  regarded  the  oppor- 
tunity thus  lost  as  his  greatest,  but  esteemed  more  highly 
the  sculptor's  art.  It  is  not  probable,  however,  that  Leo- 
nardo, whose  versatility  was  more  eager  and  his  sympathies 
in  art  more  catholic  than  those  of  Michelangelo,  ever  con- 
sciously disparaged  painting.  His  devotion  to  this  as  to  every 
art  was  sincere  and  ardent.  For  us,  however,  there  is  this 
great  difference  between  the  two  men.  We  have  Michel- 
angelo's sculpture,  fragmentary  though  it  be,  while  that  of 
Leonardo  has  utterly  perished.  Among  Leonardo's  sketches 
we  cannot  trace  with  certainty  even  a  hint  of  the  great 
monument  of  Sforza,  the  completed  model  of  which  was 
barbarously  mutilated  by  the  foreign  conquerors  of  Milan 
and  finally  broken  up.  The  art  of  the  world  has  suffered 
few  losses  more  serious  than  this. 

In  painting  we  have  first  to  note  briefly  certain  changes  of 
manner,  which  like  all  formal  changes  are  of  secondary  im- 
portance, but  which  in  this  case  have  been  so  far  reaching  in 
their  results  as  to  require  more  than  the  usual  notice.  First 
of  all,  we  owe  to  him  a  new  conception  of  the  composition  or 
arrangement  of  a  picture.  Hitherto  there  had  been  a  tend- 
ency to  arrange  figures  in  line,  that  being  obviously  the 
best  way  to  make  each  appear  to  advantage.  As  a  result, 
the  heads  formed  more  or  less  of  a  row,  running  horizontally 
through  the  picture.  Such  pictures  fit  best  in  square  or 
oblong  frames,  and  Giotto  and  the  other  painters  who  were 
free  to  divide  large  walls  to  suit  themselves,  usually  adopted 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      231 

the  horizontal  rectangle  as  the  form  in  which  a  number  of 
persons  could  stand  most  comfortably.  The  reader  of  these 
pages  will  recall  numerous  examples  of  this  kind  of  picture 
from  the  painting  of  Giotto,  Masaccio,  Fra  Lippo,  Ghir- 
landajo,  and  others.  Aside  from  its  convenience,  this  form 
of  picture  is  especially  suited  to  story-telling,  the  successive 
incidents  being  arranged  in  sequence.  We  can  appreciate 
at  once  how  difficult  Masaccio  would  have  found  it  to  repre- 
sent the  three  episodes  of  his  story  of  the  Tribute  Money,  if 
his  space  had  been  high  and  narrow,  instead  of  broad  and 
low,  as  he  with  the  whole  wall  at  his  disposal,  was  free  to 
make  it. 

But  it  is  difficult  to  make  a  strong  impression  with  such  a 
picture.  The  older  painters  seem  more  or  less  to  have 
realized  this  without  quite  knowing  why.  It  seemed  neces- 
sary to  represent,  or  at  least  to  suggest,  the  various  episodes 
of  their  story  in  some  such  way,  and  the  diffuseness  and 
scattering  which  resulted  seems  to  have  been  accepted  as 
one  of  the  limitations  of  painting.  There  are  practically  no 
condensed  or  highly  unified  pictures  up  to  Leonardo's  time. 

Leonardo  seems  to  have  been  the  first  to  appreciate  that 
things  which  are  to  make  their  impression  upon  the  eye, 
must  be  things  which  can  be  seen  all  at  once.  They  must 
have  a  center  of  interest  which  the  eye  can  locate  at  once, 
without  a  particle  of  doubt,  in  the  easiest  and  most  effective 
spot,  and  all  else  must  be  subordinate  to  this  center  and  must 
contribute  to  its  importance.  This  leads  to  several  momen- 
tous conclusions.  First  of  all,  there  must  be  no  more  story- 
telling in  painting,  at  least  none  that  involves  a  series  of 
episodes,  for  such  pictures  cannot  be  strongly  unified  for 
presentation  to  the  eye.  They  must  always  be  seen  piece- 
meal, and  so  are  straggling  and  weak.  Our  interest  in  stories 
is  so  strong  that  we  sometimes  overlook  the  fact  that  they  are 
unsuitable  for  painting,  but  sooner  or  later  every  art  must 
choose  those  subjects  that  it  can  represent  best,  if  it  is  to 


232  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

develop  its  full  possibilities.  Leonardo  represents  no  sub- 
ject which  requires  a  series  of  episodes. 

The  subject  thus  simplified,  Leonardo  seeks  the  most 
condensed  and  unified  grouping  possible.  Not  a  line  of 
heads;  that  is  too  diffuse.  The  eye  runs  along  such  a  line 
without  dwelling  anywhere..  We  must  have  a  center  of 
interest,  and  that  in  the  best  possible  place.  And  since  for 
some  reason  we  always  see  the  upper  half  of  things  better 
than  the  lower  half,  the  center  of  interest  must  be  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  picture.  To  an  artist  who  recognizes  the 
human  being  as  the  supreme  theme  in  art,  the  center  of 
interest  would  naturally  be  a  single  head,  placed  somewhat 
above  the  rest.  Such  an  arrangement  occurs  in  the  early 
picture  of  the  Virgin  of  the  Rocks  (C  1 2)  now  in  the  Louvre, 
Paris. 

But  Leonardo  still  is  not  satisfied.  The  figures  here  are 
too  widely  separated,  and  the  eye  does  not  feel  the  full  force 
of  all  -at  a  glance.  He  desires  a  more  compact  group.  Such  a 
group  we  have  in  the  famous  cartoon  of  the  Diploma  Gal- 
lery (C  1 1)  ,^  London.  It  is  difficult  to  refrain  from  commenting 
on  the  wondrous  beauty  of  these  faces,  the  exquisite  natural- 
ness of  their  posture  and  of  the  children  who  play  about  their 
knees,  a  vision  of  loveliness  and  of  unfettered  spirit  such 
as  Christian  art  up  to  this  time  had  never  suggested.  But 
we  are  concerned  for  the  moment  with  other  things.  The 
artist,  experimenting  here  as  always,  is  trying  to  work  out  a 
new  kind  of  group.  It  is  probably  for  this  reason  that  he 
introduces  the  figures  of  Saint  Anne  to  give  the  additional 
material,  so  to  speak,  which  his  group  requires.  The  two 
women  sit  side  by  side  with  their  heads  very  close  together. 
The  children,  playing  below,  furnish  the  subordinate  figures, 
and  give  the  broader  base  which  a  group  thus  compactly 
formed,  requires  to  give  the  desired  impression  of  physical 
stability.     A  group  thus  formed  becomes  somewhat  pyram- 

*  Frontispiece  of  this  volume. 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      233 

idal  in  form,  distinctly  a  new  plan  in  Italian  art,  but  one 
always  followed  afterward.  Up  to  Leonardo's  time  the 
horizontal  line  is  the  almost  universal  composition.  After 
his  time  it  is  almost  as  universally  the  triangle,  while  his 
contemporaries,  like  Perugino,  show  a  curious  tendency  to 
blend  the  two. 

The  cartoon  was  never  executed  as  a  painting.  We  do  not 
know  why,  but  we  may  surmise  that  he  found  it  imsatis- 
factory.  The  two  heads  at  the  apex,  however  close  together, 
divide  the  interest  which  here  especially  must  be  completely 
unified.  The  little  Saint  John,  too,  is  quite  to  one  side,  and 
the  result  is  that  there  is  a  deep  hollow  or  notch  on  the  right 
side  of  the  group  quite  marring  its  symmetry.  And  now, 
looking  closer,  we  see  that  Leonardo  seems  to  have  felt  this 
defect,  for  we  detect  a  large  hand,  with  upward  pointing 
finger,  sketched  in  here  to  fill  the  gap.  The  suggestion  of 
this  hand  is  not  at  aU  pleasant.  It  can  only  have  a  sym- 
bolical meaning  which  jars  sadly  with  the  spirit  of  intimacy 
and  quiet  happiness  which  pervades  the  scene.  The  con- 
clusion is  quite  irresistible  that  Leonardo  formed  his  group 
at  first  with  exquisite  spontaneity,  too  careless,  perhaps, 
of  the  resulting  irregularity,  and  that  becoming  conscious  of 
this  irregularity,  he  sketches  in  the  hand  and  observes  the 
effect.  It  is  far  from  satisfactory.  It  is  large  and  obtrusive, 
and  the  suggestion  is  alien  in  spirit.  What  with  the  double 
apex  and  the  unfilled  notch,  the  piece  seems  hopeless.  The 
imagination  in  which  dwelt  such  figures  as  these  \sdthout 
number,  would  hardly  feel,  as  we  do,  the  pity  of  sacrificing 
such  a  beginning.  When  the  convenient  season  should 
come,  that  "ineffable  left  hand"  had  but  to  raise  the  magic 
wand,  and  these  lovely  forms  would  come  forth  at  his  bidding. 
Alas  that  he  should  have  waited  so  often  for  the  more  con- 
venient season. 

One  more  attempt  fC  16)  shows  the  direction  of  his  endeavor. 
This  time  the  Saint  Anne  is  again  required,  but  to  secure 


C  10,  Madonna,  Cliild,  and  St.  Anno.     Ijouvre,  Paris. 
Iieonardo  da  Vinci,  1452-1519. 


Leonardo  J  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      235 

the  more  compact  group,  the  single  apex,  and  the  desired 
form,  the  Virgin  mother  sits  in  Saint  Anne's  lap  and  leans 
over  to  the  child  who  plays  with  the  lamb.  The  idea  is  a 
Uttle  startling  and  not  above  criticism.  The  group  is  far 
less  spontaneous  and  the  figures  less  beautiful  in  attitude  or 
face  than  in  the  earlier  work,  but  it  is  precisely  this  straining 
of  the  theme  which  tells  us  what  Leonardo  was  striving  for. 
Like  most  of  his  works,  this  picture  is  an  experiment,  valued 
less  for  itself  than  for  the  principle  it  illustrates. 

As  a  final  study  in  this  scheme  of  composition,  but  in  a  far 
more  complex  application,  let  us  note  the  Battle  of  Anghiari 
(C  21),  perhaps  the  most  terrific  manifestation  of  energy  and 
passion  which  art  has  thus  far  produced.  In  this  writhing 
mass  of  men,  horses  and  accoutrements,  it  is  not  difficult 
to  trace  a  complex  application  of  the  same  principle  which 
we  have  been  considering.  The  spontaneity  is  terrific,  but 
rocks  and  spears  and  beasts  and  men  all  unconsciously  unite 
in  one  of  those  hidden  symmetries  which  our  artist  was  teach- 
ing art  to  seek.  This  scene,  too,  helps  us  to  understand  why 
Leonardo  sought  the  close  and  compact  group  instead  of  the 
open  one  with  which  he  began.  Imagine  these  horsemen 
separated  by  a  little  space,  however  savagely  rushing  upon 
one  another,  and  we  instantly  feel  how  we  have  weakened 
the  group.  Compactness  means  intensity,  a  necessity  of 
dramatic  art. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  how  promptly  Leonardo  reacted 
upon  Florentine  art.  It  was  Fra  Bartolommeo,  a  serious 
but  feebly  artistic  soul,  who  was  privileged  to  formulate  this 
principle  of  the  new  art  into  that  lifeless  rule  of  thumb  which 
the  craftsman  in  art  so  dearly  loves.  In  his  monumental 
drawing  in  the  Uffizi  in  Florence,  we  have  triangles  galore. 
First,  there  is  the  Madonna  and  Child,  conveniently  supple- 
mented in  outline  by  the  edge  of  a  book.  This  gives  our 
first  triangle.  Above  the  Madonna  towers  Saint  Anne,  sug- 
gestive coincidence,  who  in  collaboration  with  figures  around 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance      237 

and  beneath,  forms  another  triangle,  whose  lines  are  echoed 
by  the  legs  of  the  cherubs  below.  Starting  now  with  the 
mask  at  the  very  top,  and  utilizing  the  figures  of  the  promi- 
nent angels  on  either  side,  we  descend  to  the  heads  of  the 
powerful  figures  to  right  and  left,  and  we  have  another  tri- 
angle, larger  and  more  intangible  than  the  rest,  but  obviously 
intended.  It  is  triangle  within  triangle,  after  the  fashion 
that  the  pail  makers  would  call  a  ^^nest."  It  need  hardly 
be  pointed  out  how  little  this  resenibles  the  spontaneous 
grouping  of  Leonardo  of  which  it  is  none  the  less  a  conscious 
imitation.  Andrea  del  Sarto,  a  less  serious  but  more  facile 
painter,  again  shows  this  influence.  In  his  early  painting, 
the  Visit  of  the  Magi,  we  have  the  old  composition,  non- 
chalant and  happy-go-lucky,  but  pleasingly  easy.  In  his 
Madonna  of  the  Sack,  however,  we  at  once  notice  the 
influence  of  Leonardo,  exerted,  however,  through  the  person 
of  Fra  Bartolommeo.  The  Madonna  holds  the  Child  in  the 
identical  attitude  noted  in  the  last,  and  even  triangulates 
herself  with  the  aid  of  Joseph's  book,  a  repetition  which,  in 
our  own  age,  would  be  accounted  plagiarism.  Joseph  and 
his  bag  form  a  second  triangle  required  by  the  long  lunette. 
It  is  both  less  formal  and  less  dignified  than  the  work  of  Fra 
Bartolommeo,  but  both  are  echoes  of  Leonardo. 

By  far  the  happiest  result  of  Leonardo's  new  system, 
however,  is  to  be  found  in  the  work  of  Raphael,  whose  best 
known  and  finest  Madonnas  are  ideal  examples  of  the  new 
principle.  Such  are  the  Sistine  Madonna  (C  196)  in  Dresden, 
the  Madonna  del  Prato  (C  158)  in  Vienna,  the  Cardellino 
(C  151)  in  Florence,  and  la  Belle  Jardiniere  (C  156)  in  Paris, 
the  last  three  executed  immediately  under  the  influence  of 
the  great  master,  and  the  artist's  most  perfect  creations. 

Other  innovations  in  the  painter's  manner  are  even  more 
important,  but  too  subtle  for  our  profitable  analysis.  Such, 
in  particular,  was  his  new  conception  of  light  and  shade. 
Earlier  art  had  thought  of  its  task  as  the  representation  of 


238  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

objects,  that  is,  a  study  in  forms.  For  this  purpose,  forms 
must  be  indicated  in  outline  and  then  ''modeled"  with 
lights  and  shadows,  and  colored  for  their  fuller  expression. 
Composition  was  merely  a  problem  of  arranging  the  objects, 
usually  persons,  thus  represented.  Line,  light  and  shade, 
and  color  were  thus  merely  means  to  the  representation  of 
forms  which  were  the  true  subject  of  art.  This  is  a  most 
prosaic  conception  of  painting,  though  it  had  to  suffice  for 
some  very  poetic  souls,  like  Botticelli.  It  quite  corresponds 
to  the  naive  conception  of  music  which  makes  it  merely  a 
kind  of  melodious  talk  and  lays  all  emphasis  on  hearing 
the  words.  And  now,  just  as  music,  in  its  farther  develop- 
ment, lays  increasing  stress  upon  the  purely  sensuous  ele- 
ments of  tone,  melody  and  harmony,  subordinating  words, 
and  finally  in  its  highest  forms,  dropping  words  altogether, 
so  drawing  and  painting  slowly  became  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  these  purely  sensuous  elements  of  line,  light  and 
shade,  and  color,  are  themselves  the  substance  of  the  art, 
and  the  representation  of  forms  is  quite  a  subordinate  thing. 
The  lights  and  shadows  that  fill  a  space  are  quite  as  impor- 
tant in  art  as  those  that  show  the  shapes  of  persons  and 
things,  often  much  more  so.  In  our  own  experience  the 
lights  and  shadows  by  which  we  are  surrounded  have  more 
influence  over  our  spiritual  moods  than  have  the  people 
about  us.  The  same  is  true  of  color  and  line,  quite  independ- 
ently of  any  shape  or  thing  which  they  define.  The  peculiar 
thing  about  all  these  merely  sensuous  elements,  both  in  nature 
and  art,  is  that  we  do  not  think  about  them  very  much.  We 
merely  feel  them.  We  are  greatly  influenced  by  sound, 
especially  when  rhythmical  and  melodious,  but  it  is  only 
when  it  takes  the  form  of  words  that  we  speak  of  it  as  having 
a  ''meaning."  We  are  equally  susceptible  to  light  and  shade, 
but  it  is  only  when  these  lights  and  shadows  suggest  things 
or  objects  to  us  that  we  stop  and  think  about  them  and 
attribute  meaning  to  them. 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance,     239 

Now  things  are  in  art  what  words  are  in  music.  We  may 
treat  them  quite  artistically  if  we  will  not  be  too  literal,  if 
we  will  throw  their  lights  and  shadows,  their  lines  and  their 
colors  into  cadence,  and  above  all,  build  about  them  an 
accompaniment  of  these  sarrie  sensuous  things.  But  the 
indispensable  condition  of  this  is  that  we  should  think  about 
the  laws  of  musical  composition  and  not  about  the  mere 
meaning.  And  finally,  when  we  have  the  laws  of  musical 
composition  clearly  in  mind,  it  at  last  becomes  clear  to  us 
that  we  can  have  songs  without  words,  great  painting  without 
people  or  things,  or  with  these  so  subordinated  that  the  mind 
will  take  no  note  of  them.  It  is  into  the  organization  of 
these  impersonal  and  sensuous  elements,  notably  light  and 
shade,  for  the  purposes  of  art,  that  Leonardo  consciously 
enters  as  explorer.  Into  the  mysteries  of  this  occult  science 
we  will  not  attempt  to  penetrate  beyond  recognizing  the 
existence  of  the  problem.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  in  Leonardo's 
work  as  in  all  great  painting  since  his  time,  lights  and  shadows 
are  considered  by  themselves,  whether  they  represent  objects 
or  not,  and  are  studied  with  reference  to  composition,  much 
as  sound,  whether  articulate  or  not,  is  built  into  music. 
There  are  few  who  analyze  these  compositions;  there  are 
still  fewer  who  do  not  feel  them. 

But  in  this  study  of  the  impersonal  in  art,  Leonardo  did  not 
disparage  the  old  themes  or  the  old  study  of  personality.  On 
the  contrary,  he  surpassed  all  others,  before  ?nd  since,  in  the 
subtlety  of  his  analysis  of  human  character.  It  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  universality  of  Leonardo's  genius,  that  while 
he  was  lifting  the  impersonal  and  sensuous  elements  of  paint- 
ing into  a  cult,  he  was  at  the  same  moment  penetrating  more 
deeply  than  any  had  done  before,  into  the  mysteries  of  per- 
sonality. 

Leonardo  revolutionized  the  conception  of  the  Madonna 
in  art.  Until  his  day  the  theme  is  essentially  ecclesiastical. 
The  Madonna  sits  on  a  throne,  and  the  throne  is  in  the 


240  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

church.  She  holds  the  child  facing  outward,  as  a  queen 
regent  might  hold  the  infant  king.  Saints,  one  or  more, 
stand  guard  on  either  side.  All  face  outward  toward  the 
worshiping  audience,  whose  presence  is  inevitably  pre- 
supposed. So  far  as  faces  betray  significant  feeling,  that 
feeling  is  serious,  and  tinged  with  the  pathos  of  vague  appre- 
hension. In  a  few  great  examples  this  theme  rises  to  a  high 
level  of  spiritual  suggestion,  as  in  some  of  the  finer  works  of 
John  Bellini.  For  the  most  part  it  is  the  formalism  rather 
than  the  spiritual  suggestion  which  is  impressive.  Such  b 
Raphael's  Madonna  Ansidei. 

Leonardo  changes  both  the  essence  and  the  manner  of  the 
theme.  The  Madonna  comes  down  from  her  throne,  the 
company  scatters  and  the  saints  are  dismissed.  With  only 
her  mother  or  an  angel  for  company  and  the  two  children 
for  playmates,  they  leave  the  church  and  wander  far  from 
the  haunts  of  men,  among  green  fields  and  in  shady  nooks. 
They  fling  to  the  winds  all  formality  and  care.  Spontaneity, 
liberty,  and  relaxation  of  body  and  mind  take  the  place  of 
formalism  and  restraint.  They  seem  to  feel  the  relief,  for 
now,  noteworthy  change,  the  Madonna  smiles.  She  has  never 
smiled  before.  It  is  the  most  fugitive  and  subtle  of  smiles, 
a  radiance  revealing  serenity  and  quiet  joy  within.  Notice 
the  Angel's  face  in  the  Virgiil  of  the  Rocks,  above  all,  the 
wonderful  London  cartoon.  How  much  of  spiritual  happi- 
ness is  here  told  by  how  little !  How  much  more  than  would 
have  been  told  by  more!  To  this  freer  and  happier  mood  all 
action,  especially  that  of  the  children,  insensibly  adjusts 
itself.  Not  less  the  exquisite  attitudes  of  the  figures  which 
in  the  case  of  the  cartoon  are  part  and  parcel  of  the  all- 
pervading  serenity.  Most  striking  of  all,  perhaps,  is  the 
transformation  of  the  child,  hitherto  too  often  a  theological 
caricature,  an  unbeautiful  compromise  between  the  guileless 
emptiness  of  childhood  and  the  infinite  fullness  of  the  divine. 
Note  the  child  in  the  Virgin  of  the  Rocks.     Transfigured 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance     241 

nature,  but  nature  in  all  the  unspoiled  beauty  of  dimpled 
babyhood. 

Let  us  recall  for  a  moment  the  significance  of  this  change. 
We  have  smiles  instead  of  pathos,  happiness  instead  of  fore- 
boding, baby  charm  instead  of  symbolic  mannikin,  green 
fields  instead  of  throne  and  church,  nature  instead  of  dogma. 
The  old  art  had  represented  in  the  Madonna  the  symbol, 
and  in  rare  cases,  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  in  the  form  and 
face  of  a  woman.  The  new  theme  is  the  beauty  of  the 
eternally  feminine,  of  mother  love  and  childish  glee.  It  is 
the  consummation  of  the  nature  movement  begun  by  Masac- 
cio  and  erratically  carried  on  by  Fra  Lippo,  the  realization  of 
the  ideal  of  humanism  by  one  who  cared  not  to  call  himself 
by  that  name. 

But  we  shall  misunderstand  Leonardo  if  we  picture  him  to 
our  minds  as  in  revolt  against  religion,  however  devoted  to 
nature.  We  have  still  to  consider  the  great  masterpiece  which 
tells  us  that  he  came  not  to  destroy  but  to  fulfill.  It  was  in 
the  year  1404,  when  the  artist  was  at  the  height  of  his  powers, 
that  he  began  the  great  picture  of  the  Last  Supper  (C  3,  4,  5,  6, 
7,  8),  in  the  refectory  of  the  Monastery  of  Santa  Maria  delle 
Grazie  in  Milan.  This  picture  of  the  sacred  supper  was  the 
usual  subject  chosen  to  decorate  the  dining  room  of  a  mon- 
astery, and  was  executed  in  this  case  apparently  under  the 
joint  auspices  of  the  brotherhood  and  of  the  great  duke, 
Sforza,  the  patron  whose  munificence  had  first  tempted 
Leonardo  from  Florence,  and  on  whose  political  and  social 
necessities  his  talents  were  to  be  so  largely  squandered. 
Only  for  the  brief  two  years  spent  on  this  work  did  outward 
circumstances  and  inner  purpose  combine  to  promote  the 
highest  ends  of  art.  The  unfortunate  experiment  of  tempera 
has  been  referred  to.  The  destruction  which  began  so 
speedily  to  overtake  the  great  work  was  little  arrested  by  the 
ill-judged  efforts  with  paint  and  varnish  to  preserve  its 
flaking  surface.     Not  until  1908  did  the  most  remarkable 


C  4,  Head  of  Christ  (Detail  from  Last  Supper). 

Refectory,  S.  M.  delle  Grazie,  Milan. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,  1452-1519. 


1 

1     mi 

HI 

1,.,  ■  ■  ■'w\-    ''""*^!^''^'' 

W¥^%'  1 

t.'- #§^- 

PI 

248  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art  Jt 

effort  at  restoration  which  history  records  finally  sta> 
advancing  destruction. 

The  student  will  best  appreciate  this  remarkable  wl^H] 
by  keeping  by  him  for  occasional  comparison  the  Last 
Supper  by  Ghirlandajo  in  San  Marco,  Florence,  also 
that  of  Andrea  del  Sarto  in  San  Salvi,  Florence.  The  spirit- 
less formalism  of  the  one  and  the  nonchalant  unconvention- 
ality  of  the  other  are  both  perfectly  characteristic,  and 
absolutely  in  contrast  with  the  work  of  Leonardo. 

Christ  and  the  twelve  are  ranged  at  the  rear  and  the  ends 
of  a  long  table  whose  service  side  is  toward  us.  Windows 
which  frame  one  of  the  most  beautiful  landscapes  in  ItaUan 
art,  open  behind  and  furnish  a  luminous  background  for  the 
figure  of  the  Christ.  The  scene  is  that  following  immedi- 
ately upon  the  fateful  words,  "Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  you 
that  one  of  you  shall  betray  me."  Like  a  bolt  from  the  blue 
these  words  of  the  sorely  burdened  Master  have  fallen  upon 
the  devoted  band  whose  fear  has  been  of  everything  save 
their  own  faithlessness.  It  is  a  supremely  dramatic  theme, 
this  moment  of  sore  trouble  over  the  things  which  are  of  the 
spirit. 

The  theme  was  obviously  little  suited  to  the  new  scheme 
of  picture  building  already  considered.  If  the  table  were 
turned  endwise,  the  Christ  would  necessarily  sit  at  the 
farther  end,  the  intimate  incidents  would  be  subordinated, 
and  the  nearer  disciples  must  either  ignore  him  or  turn  their 
backs  on  the  spectator.  Something  like  this  we  have  in 
the  very  unsatisfactory  works  of  Ferrari  and  Rubens.  Or 
turning  the  table  sidewise,  the  figiu-es  make  a  long  row,  the 
deadly  monotony  of  which  Ghirlandajo  illustrates.  It  is 
none  the  less  this  danger  which  Leonardo  chose  to  confront. 
It  is  important  to  note  by  what  means  he  has  overcome  these 
difficulties. 

To  avoid  the  impression  of  monotony  and  the  long  diffuse 
line,  he  has  formed  of  the  twelve  disciples  four  groups  of 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance       249 

three  each,  and  each  group  he  has  fashioned  according  to  his 
new  principle,  into  the  compact  pyramidal  form  which  we 
have  noted.  Along  with  great  variety,  they  all  conform 
fairly  to  the  favored  pattern,  and  have  also  an  inner  unity 
of  action  and  feeling  which  enhances  their  individual  charac- 
ter. Thus,  from  left  to  right,  the  first  group  all  gaze  stupe- 
fied and  speechless  at  the  Master;  in  the  second,  Peter 
whispers  to  John,  while  Judas  listens  anxiously ;  in  the  third, 
all  address  Jesus  with  a  common  impulse;  while  the  fourth 
group  put  their  heads  together  in  excited  discussion.  In 
accordance  with  his  uniform  practice  he  takes  care  that  each 
group  shall  be  a  spiritual  as  well  as  a  physical  unity. 

The  breaking  up  of  the  monotonous  line  was  comparatively 
easy,  but  it  will  occur  to  everyone  that  in  building  these 
separate  groups  he  was  sacrificing  his  main  unity.  There 
was  the  utmost  danger  that  his  picture  would  break  to  pieces, 
each  part  suggesting  thoughts  of  its  own,  but  giving  us  no 
supreme  thought  worthy  of  the  great  theme.  To  counteract 
this  danger,  it  is  necessary  that  each  group  should  make  it 
perfectly  plain  to  us  that  its  thought  and  interest,  all  that  it 
stands  for,  spiritually,  is  merged  in  the  great  personality 
which  must  needs  be  all  in  all.  We  have  already  learned 
how  this  may  be  done.  Let  us  note  Leonardo's  application 
of  the  well  known  means. 

The  group  at  the  right  end  consists  of  three  men  who  are 
excitedly  discussing  the  announcement.  The  one  at  the  end, 
looking  at  his  interlocutor,  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  spreads 
out  his  palms  in  the  familiar  unconscious  gesture  by  which 
we  protest  innocence  or  helplessness.  He  is  conspicuously 
talking  to  and  looking  at  someone  else  than  Jesus.  Yet  in 
that  moment,  the  open  hands  and  long  fingers  stretch  out 
toward  him.  This  trifling  line  of  least  resistance  is  none  the 
less  suggestive  to  the  mind.  It  is  a  sensuous  line,  an  eye 
path  merely.  The  man  opposite  speaks  excitedly  but  points 
behind  him  in  the  same  direction.    This  is  not  merely  an 


250  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

eye  path  along  which  our  attention  moves.  It  is  that  and 
more,  for  now  we  feel  sure  that  the  speaker  is  consciously 
pointing  at  Jesus,  which  means  that  his  own  attention  or 
thought  is  also  moving  that  way.  So,  by  mental  suggestion, 
our  own  thought  is  carried  along  with  it.  This  is  a  much 
more  potent  suggestion  than  the  other  and  quite  different  in 
kind.  Here,  then,  we  have  a  self-centered  group  who  make 
it  perfectly  clear  that  that  which  engages  their  attention  and 
explains  their  action  has  to  do  with  the  figures  in  the  center. 

Passing  now  to  the  other  end,  we -have  three  persons  who 
are  not  absorbed  in  their  own  words,  but  gaze  intently  at 
Jesus.  They  do  not  point;  they  look.  This  is  mental 
suggestion  in  its  most  obvious  form,  and  when  the  gaze  is 
intense,  it  is  the  form  which  is  most  potent.  We  have  no 
doubt  as  to  where  this  group  is  in  spirit. 

The  group  at  the  left  center  is,  like  that  at  the  right  end, 
self  occupied,  the  anxious  listening  of  Judas  being  as  much 
a  bond  as  the  eager  whispering  of  Peter.  Their  spiritual 
gravitation  is  again  made  perfectly  apparent  by  the  forward 
leaning  and  pointing  of  their  spokesman. 

But  interest  centers  in  the  wonderful  group  of  the  right 
center  who  address  themselves  individually  to  Jesus  with 
emotions  so  contrasted  and  so  intense  as  to  sunder  them  com- 
pletely, were  it  not  that  all  are  but  manifestations  of  their 
perfect  devotion  to  him.  To  the  left  is  Thomas  whom  we 
ungraciously  remember  in  his  doubts  and  forget  in  his  devo- 
tion. It  was  he  who,  when  Jesus  prophesied  his  own  death, 
said,  "Let  us  also  go  up,  that  we  may  die  with  him."  Loyal, 
yet  distrustful  of  himself,  he  lifts  a  finger  to  secure  attention, 
and  asks  in  trembling  earnestness:  "Is  it  I,  Lord?"  Not 
so  the  magnificent  James,  that  "Son  of  Thunder,"  who 
invoked  fire  from  heaven  to  consume  the  unfriendly  village. 
Recoiling  with  the  hot  indignation  of  outraged  devotion, 
he  seems  to  demand  instant  retraction:  "Impossible!  Is 
insult  then  the  reward  of  devotion?"    Beyond  him,  Philip 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance       251 


rises,  his  hands  upon  his  heart,  and  leaning  over  with  a  look 
of  infinite  tenderness,  seems  to  say,  ''Lord,  thou  knowest  not 
how  we  love  Thee."  How  searching  is  this  glance  of  the 
great  seer  into  the  thoughts  and  intents  of  these  hearts  1 
Like  an  electric  shock  has  come  the  fateful  announcement,  and 
in  an  instant  the  depressed  and  silent  company  has  broken 
into  Httle  knots,  close  huddled  around  their  several  storm 
centers  of  emotion,  but  all  drawn  as  by  a  magnet's  unseen 
power  toward  that  one  sitting  alone,  whose  isolation  no 
mortal  may  share,  but  whose  spell  none  may  resist. 

It  is  in  the  unfathomable  suggestion  of  this  face  that  we 
note  the  artist's  supreme  triumph.  Fra  Angelico  gives  us 
the  seraphic  ecstasy  of  the  celestial  Christ ;  Masaccio  gives 
us  the  manliness  that  braved  the  Pharisees  and  drove  the 
money  changers  from  the  Temple;  each  has  given  us  one 
characteristic.  But  no  other  has  given  us  a  comprehension 
of  his  many-sided  character.  The  face  is  indeed  acquainted 
with  grief,  yet  there  is  neither  faltering  nor  defiance.  We 
have  but  to  lift  ever  so  little  the  shadows  of  this  dark  hour  to 
find  the  calm,  gentle  eyes  quick  with  sympathy  for  a  child, 
or  the  strong  mouth  shut  with  firm  determination  against 
hypocrisy  and  greed.  It  is  easy  to  suggest  one  character- 
istic at  a  time ;  it  is  only  here  that  we  find  in  full  expression 
or  fugitive  suggestion  the  varied  and  contrasted  qualities 
which  the  great  drama  requires  and  the  heart  of  the  follower 
craves. 

It  is  difficult  to  pass  from  the  contemplation  of  this  work, 
so  easily  first  among  the  achievements  of  Christian  art,  to 
any  other,  even  from  the  hand  of  Leonardo  himself.  Yet 
popular  favor  has  divided  the  honors  between  the  Last 
Supper  and  Mona  Lisa  (C  10),  while  daring  robbery  has,  in 
these  last  days,  given  to  the  latter  a  factitious  interest.  Prob- 
ably no  picture  in  the  world  is  so  much  lauded  or  so  little 
understood,  —  lauded,  perhaps,  in  part  because  not  under- 
stood.   The  picture,  painted  after  the  Last  Supper,  shows 


C  10^  Mona  Lisa.     Recently  lost  from  the  Louvre,  Paris. 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  1452-1519. 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance        253 

the  same  powers  of  analysis,  possibly  in  an  even  higher  degree. 
Of  its  marvellous  color,  praised  by  Vasari,  we  shall  never 
be  able  to  judge.  The  changes  in  color  above  referred  to  are 
here  most  indubitable.  Its  exquisite  finish,  its  infinitely 
sensitive  delineation,  and  its  psychic  subtlety  few  will  be 
found  to  doubt.  Its  haunting,  baffling,  yet  evanescent  and 
fugitive  smile  is  famous.  The  story  is  familiar  that  Leonardo 
kept  music  playing  in  a  distant  apartment  in  the  days  and 
months  of  his  exacting  task,  that  he  might  hold  fast  or  call 
back  the  subtle  expression  which  had  fascinated  him.  He 
has  held  it  fast  to  fascinate  mankind  forever.  Yet  the  Mona 
Lisa,  concede  what  we  will  to  the  artist's  transcendent  powers, 
is  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with  the  Last 
Supper.  The  powers  are  the  same,  but  in  the  one  case  they 
are  used  to  puzzle,  and  in  the  other  to  inspire.  Leonardo's 
fondness  for  the  weird  and  the  enigmatical  appears  here  in 
subtlest  form  as  the  master  passion  of  this  sphinx-like  en- 
chantress. She  is  the  highest  possible  embodiment  in  art  of 
a  type  not  unknown  in  life.  She  is  not  beautiful,  but  she  is 
fascinating.  It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  delicacy  of 
her  hands,  the  perfect  poise  of  her  figure,  or  the  suggestive- 
ness  of  her  smile.  There  are  the  widest  divergencies  of 
opinion  as  to  her  meaning,  but  there  are  none  who  doubt  her 
power.  She  is  the  riddle  that  has  provoked  a  thousand 
guesses,  but  that  none  can  let  alone.  But  when  we  have 
conceded  the  utmost  to  the  painter's  skill  and  to  the  picture's 
fascination,  the  impression  of  the  Mona  Lisa  remains  a 
doubtful  one.  She  is  mystifying  rather  than  satisfying. 
We  own  her  power,  but  we  do  not  love  her.  She  is  not 
the  highest,  even  if  the  most  marvellous  of  Leonardo's 
creations. 

The  art  of  Leonardo  which  in  the  Mona  Lisa  had  passed 
into  unfathomable  mystery,  was  destined  soon  to  pass  into 
oblivion.  A  brief  stay  in  Rome  secured  him  another  com- 
mission, again  to  be  sacrificed  to  his  insatiable  interest  in 


254  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

experiment.  The  last  years  of  his  life  were  spent  at  the 
French  court,  where  the  brilliant  Francis  I  regarded  him 
with  especial  favor,  prizing  him,  as  the  old  man  would  him- 
self have  chosen,  more  as  a  scientist  and  sage  than  as  an 
artist.  In  the  vast  range  of  his  thought  he  had  seemed  to 
make  no  enduring  conquests.  Yet  in  art  at  least  his  influence 
was  decisive.  With  all  the  progress  that  art  had  made  up  to 
Leonardo's  time,  it  was  still  full  of  compromises  and  half 
measures.  The  artists  knew  that  their  paintings  were  to 
appeal  to  the  eye,  yet  they  had  never  learned  to  plan  their 
pictures  solely  with  reference  to  the  laws  of  vision.  They 
knew  that  the  plain  prose  of  life  must  have  rhythm  and 
accompaniment  if  it  was  to  be  transformed  into  the  music 
of  art,  but  they  had  no  conception  of  the  power  of  these 
sensuous  elements,  still  less  did  they  realize  that  art  must 
build  its  whole  structure  with  mere  colors  and  lights  and 
shadows  as  such,  quite  without  reference  to  the  objects  which 
they  were  called  upon  to  express.  Above  all,  in  the  world 
of  ideas,  where  art  with  all  its  necessities  of  color  and  shadow 
music  must  find  its  great  opportunity,  they  were  still  de- 
pendent upon  externals  and  symbols.  The  Madonna  might 
be  beautiful  and  spiritually  suggestive,  but  she  must  still 
have  her  throne,  her  saints,  her  accustomed  symbols. 

Leonardo  gave  to  Christian  art  its  final  and  complete 
enfranchisement.  In  the  new  painting,  the  law  of  vision  is 
substituted  for  the  law  of  tradition  and  the  church.  Light 
and  shadow  still  outline  the  objects  of  our  thought,  but  they 
acquire  a  mystery  and  a  meaning  quite  their  own.  Above 
all,  in  the  interpretation  of  the  familiar  Christian  themes, 
the  last  vestige  of  symbolism  disappears  to  make  way  for  a 
deeper  meaning.  We  recognize  the  Madonna,  not  by  the 
throne  and  the  worshiping  saints,  but  by  the  mother  love 
and  the  quiet  radiance  in  the  face  which  tells  of  the  peace  in 
her  heart.  Not  by  an  aureole  of  special  pattern  do  we  know 
the  Lord,  but  by  the  great  sorrow  of  a  mighty  heart.    All  is 


Leonardo,  the  Magician  of  the  Renaissance        255 

Christian  still,  but  all  is  more  than  Christian.  Dogma  is  not 
rejected,  but  swallowed  up  in  the  larger  facts  of  life.  Not  a 
fetich  or  a  talisman,  but  the  great  tragedy  of  a  world  in  trav- 
ail until  now,  does  Leonardo  behold  in  the  Passion  of  the 
Lord. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


UMBRIA  AND  HER  ARTIST 


The  traveler  from  Rome  to  Florence  has  his  choice  of  two 
routes.  The  one  runs  fairly  directly  through  Orvieto  and 
Chiusi,  old  Etruscan  strongholds,  passing  Lake  Trasimene  on 
the  right,  then  on  into  the  valley  of  the  Arno  to  Arezzo  and 
Florence.  It  is  the  great  route,  along  which  has  passed  the 
heavy  and  the  urgent  traffic  in  all  times.  The  other  begins 
like  the  first,  but  soon  diverges  to  the  right,  through  romantic 
valleys  and  past  many  a  city  set  upon  a  hill  in  the  long  tour 
through  Umbria,  quietest  and  loveliest  of  all  Italy.  We  pass 
Terni  with  its  hidden  fall,  and  Narni,  high  perched  above  its 
broken  bridge,  and  Spoleto,  whose  cathedral  has  the  last 
word  from  Era  Lippo,  and  Spello,  and  Assisi,  double  shrine  of 
Francis  and  of  Giotto,  and  last  of  all,  Perugia,  before  our  long 
wandering  route,  threading  the  defile  made  memorable  by 
Hannibal's  victory,  rejoins  the  direct  route  at  the  corner  of 
Lake  Trasimene. 

Perugia,  easily  first  among  the  cities  of  Umbria,  was  the 
natural  headquarters  for  the  art  that  should  express  the 
spirit  of  this  smiling  plain  which  spreads  out  at  her  feet. 
It  is  a  land  of  peace,  naturally  isolated  from  the  busier  centers 
and  more  frequented  routes  lying  to  the  west,  like  a  httle 
land-locked  bay,  from  whose  placid  bosom  we  listen  to  the 
surf  outside.  Umbria  was  too  small  to  dominate  the  thought 
of  Italy  or  to  produce  ideals  which  could  long  survive  in  full 
competition  with  those  of  Florence,  but  she  was  large  enough 
and  sufficiently  isolated  to  produce  ideals  which  were  sin- 
gularly perfect  as  the  expression  of  her  own  character  and 
inner  life, 

256 


Umhria  and  Her  Artist  257 

It  will  not  be  worth  our  while  to  trace  the  development  of 
Umbrian  art  from  its  beginnings  down  to  the  day  when  it 
was  merged  in  the  great  world  art.  It  is  the  same  story  of 
early  darkness  and  slow  groping  toward  the  light  that  we 
have  seen  in  Florence,  only  littler,  briefer,  and  less  eventful. 
Umbria  never  had  a  Giotto  or  a  Masaccio  or  a  Donatello. 
It  had  to  suffice  her,  as  well  it  might,  that  she  produced  a 
Perugino  and  a  Raphael,  the  one  representing  her  art  in  its 
highest  local  or  provincial  form,  the  other  the  bearer  of  her 
ideals  to  the  great  world  art  inaugurated  by  Leonardo.  Peru- 
gino must  therefore  do  duty  alone  as  the  representative  of 
the  local  Umbrian  art.  Even  so,  he  must  be  content  with  our 
very  brief  consideration. 

In  a  quiet  chapel  of  Santa  Maria  Maddalena  in  Florence, 
erected  by  the  famous  family  of  the  Pazzi,  who  met  their 
doom  by  conspiring  against  Lorenzo,  is  Perugino's  Crucifixion 
(B  268) ,  a  large  fresco  which  admirably  represents  his  art.  Fol- 
lowing the  suggestion  of  the  vaulting  above,  he  has  divided  the 
wall  into  three  parts,  framed  by  arches  and  piers.  In  the  cen- 
tral division  is  the  crucifix  with  the  mourning  Magdalen,  and 
in  the  two  side  compartments  the  figures  of  Mary  and  John. 
Delicate  Umbrian  landscapes  of  the  kind  that  Perugino  loved, 
form  modest  but  beautiful  backgrounds  for  all. 

It  is  apparent  at  a  glance  that  the  painter  belongs  to  the 
old  school.  No  Florentine  artist  for  the  last  hundred  and 
fifty  years  has  been  so  formal  in  his  symmetry  as  is  Perugino. 
Formalism  characterizes  also  the  action  and  the  expression  of 
emotion.  The  intensest  dramatic  situations  never  break  the 
calm  and  decorum  of  his  characters.  It  is  difficult,  as  we 
gaze  upon  this  impressively  formal  scene,  or  upon  the  Pieta 
of  the  Pitti  Gallery,  with  its  perfect  composure,  to  believe 
that  Perugino  was  once  a  fellow  pupil  of  Leonardo  in  the 
studio  of  Verocchio,  or  that  he  later  studied  under  the  great 
magician  himself.  He  was  plainly  deeply  stamped  with  the 
conservative  Umbrian  character. 


Umbria  and  Her  Artist  259 

Passing  from  these  general  characteristics  to  more  trifling 
traits,  we  are  again  impressed  with  the  way  in  which  local 
peculiarities  have  here  resisted  the  corrective  influence  of  the 
larger  center.  The  hands  and  feet  are  too  small,  as  in  the  St. 
Sebastian  of  the  Louvre.  The  mouth  is  absurdly  small,  and 
is  pursed  up  in  silly  affectation,  very  conspicuous  in  an  inferior 
work  like  the  Madonna  and  Angels  of  the  Poldi-Pezzoli 
Gallery,  Milan,  but  distinctly  traceable  even  in  so  noble  a 
work  as  the  Certosa  Altarpiece,  London,  unquestionably  his 
masterpiece.  These  faults  of  proportion  and  expression, 
which  are  evidently  not  accidents,  but  carefully  studied,  are 
local  mannerisms  and  affectations  such  as  characterize  the 
small  community.  They  have  their  origin  in  the  traditional 
honor  paid  to  small  feet,  hands  and  mouth,  and  are  an  effort 
to  express  delicacy  and  refinement.  How  superficial  such 
an  effort,  it  is  unnecessary  to  remark.  These  mannerisms 
are  at  their  worst  in  the  representation  of  the  Christ  child, 
who  becomes  the  most  insufferable  bundle  of  affectations 
that  can  be  imagined,  with  scarce  a  vestige  of  infantile 
character  remaining. 

But  having  noted  the  formalism  and  affectation  of  this 
Umbrian  art,  there  remains  the  pleasanter  task  of  noting 
Perugino's  individuality  and  real  excellence.  He  is  like 
certain  prim  and  formal  people  whom  we  have  all  known,  who 
at  first  impressed  us  only  by  their  peculiarities  of  manner, 
but  who,  when  once  known,  revealed  a  substantial  worth 
we  were  astonished  that  we  had  overlooked,  and  which 
ultimately  made  us  half  love  the  mannerisms  with  which 
they  are  associated.  The  virtues  of  Perugino  are  of  so  quiet 
and  unobtrusive  a  sort  that  they  often  remain  long  unnoticed, 
but  they  are  none  the  less  real  virtues,  and  entitle  him  to  a 
high  rank  in  art.  Among  these  virtues  we  must  notice 
chiefly  his  unfailing  refinement  which  pervades  the  innermost 
spirit  of  his  work,  and  the  sincerity  of  his  feeling.  It  is 
difficult  to  imagine  the  Crucifixion  or  the  Mourning  over 


26o  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


the  Body  of  Christ  (B  269)  in  anything  like  such  a  form  as 
Perugino  conceives  them,  but  the  longer  we  observe  these 
quiet  scenes,  the  more  impossible  it  becomes  to  doubt  that 
these  mourners  really  feel,  and  that  the  calm  that  pervades 
the  scene  partakes  of  the  composure  which  characterizes  deep 
grief,  as  well  as  of  the  decorum  of  art.  The  refinement,  too, 
which  characterizes  all  Perugino's  more  serious  work,  is  not  a 
matter  of  surface  elegance,  but  of  inner  character.  There 
are  better  ways  of  showing  this  refinement  than  by  small 
extremities  and  baby  mouth,  but  there  are  few  better  things 
to  show.  To  Perugino,  too,  must  be  credited  a  very  beautiful, 
if  somewhat  artificial,  conception  of  landscape,  which  he  uses 
in  true  Italian  fashion  as  a  background  or  setting  to  his  pic- 
tures. The  slender  trees  are  a  little  mannered,  like  his  figures, 
but  the  amber  skies  and  mild  Umbrian  beauty  of  hill  and  vale 
are  infused  with  his  own  refined  spirit. 

It  was  to  such  a  teacher  as  this,  refined  and  sincere,  in- 
finitely painstaking  and  conscientious,  but  mannered  and 
formal,  that  the  young  Raphael,  the  great  exponent  of 
Umbrian  art,  was  to  owe  his  earliest  and  most  enduring  les- 
sons. Of  all  the  artists  of  the  Renaissance,  none  responded 
so  readily  as  Raphael  to  outside  influences,  nor  did  any  meet 
influences  more  varied  or  powerful,  but  it  is  hardly  too  much 
to  say  that  in  all  his  best  work  the  influence  of  Perugino  is 
traceable,  and  that  the  waning  of  that  influence,  in  its  deeper 
essence,  measures  Raphael's  decadence. 

Raphael's  earliest  work  is  undoubtedly  to  be  found  tangled 
up  with  that  of  Perugino,  whose  foible  it  was  to  make  a  large 
use  of  his  pupils  in  the  rather  perfunctory  works  with  which  he 
kept  the  pot  boiling,  while  he  saved  leisure  for  superior  works. 
Independent  works,  however,  soon  appear.  Such  is  the 
Vision  of  a  Knight,  a  very  youthful  attempt  to  express 
the  familiar  opposition  between  the  claims  of  the  strenuous 
and  the  voluptuous  life.  The  close  resemblance  of  the 
maiden  on  the  right  to  Perugino's  figures,  even  such  manner- 


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B  269,  The  Deposition.     Pitti,  Florence. 
Perugino,  1446-1524. 


262  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

isms  as  the  tip  of  the  head  and  the  jug-handle  bit  of  drapery 
behind,  is  noticeable,  with  no  special  message. or  skill  to 
indicate  that  a  greater  than  Perugino  is  here.  The  Solly 
Madonna  (C  143)  from  Berlin,  an  early  work  comparable  to 
Perugino's  Madonna  with  Angels,  is  hardly  more  promising. 
The  face  is  scarcely  more  beautiful,  the  mouth  is  equally 
petty  and  mannered,  and  the  child  even  more  impossible. 
Raphael  is  not  one  of  the  precociously  great. 

Having  started  with  the  Solly  Madonna,  let  us  follow  the 
evolution  of  this  theme  a  few  steps  farther.  The  Spozalizio, 
or  Marriage  of  the  Virgin  (C  148),  the  great  glory  of  the  Brera 
Gallery  in  Milan,  reveals  Raphael  as  an  independent  artist, 
but  still  surprisingly  dependent  upon  the  work  of  other  men. 
The  picture  is  confessedly  derived  from  another  on  the  same 
subject  now  in  Caen,  a  picture  long  attributed  to  Perugino, 
but  perhaps  by  another  and  older  pupil.  Raphael  has  fol- 
lowed very  closely,  but  he  has  improved  a  little  at  every 
point.  He  represents  the  dome  of  the  temple  more  fully, 
corrects  some  confusing  perspective  in  the  side  porches,  and 
limbers  up  the  stiff  group  in  the  foreground,  besides  other 
minor  improvements,  the  whole  amounting  to  a  considerable 
advance,  but  suggesting  very  little  creative  power. 

It  is  the  figures  at  the  left,  however,  which  for  the  moment 
concern  us.  They  are  very  much  like  those  of  Perugino. 
A  careful  observer  will  notice  in  the  face  of  the  maiden  at 
the  extreme  left  a  slight  improvement  of  outline  and  general 
prettiness,  but  she  has  the  same  mincing  mouth  and  affected 
manner.  The  older  woman  standing  near  is  even  less  satis- 
factory, being  a  thin  disguise  for  the  same  type;  but  the  baby 
mouth  and  affectation  ill  accord  with  age.  So  far  Raphael 
is  utterly  conventional,  a  slave  to  the  foibles  of  the  Umbrian 
manner.  But  the  maiden  in  front,  standing  in  profile,  with 
her  golden  hair  falling  over  her  shoulders,  though  plainly  of 
the  same  type,  shows  an  improvement  so  great  as  to  redeem 
the  whole.    It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  in  all  time  she  has 


C  143,  Solly  Madonna.     Kaiser  Friedrich  Museum,  Berlin/ 
Raphael,  1483-1520. 


Umbria  and  Her  Artist  265 

been  the  center  of  interest  and  that  her  charm  has  quite 
obscured  the  conventionality  of  the  other  figures.  She  is 
Raphael's  first  masterpiece.  Yet  it  is  difiicult  to  define  the 
change.  It  consists  of  little  things,  and  nowhere  involves 
contrast  or  change  of  ideal.  The  meaningless  peculiarities 
of  drapery,  the  affectations  of  manner  and  expression  have 
been  eUminated,  and  the  veil  of  mannerism  thus  removed,  we 
see  essentially  Perugino's  lovely  ideal  in  her  real  character 
and  charm.     That  is  all,  but  that  is  much. 

(C  149)  The  next  step  in  our  progress  is  the  Madonna 
del  Granduca.  Again,  we  cannot  define  the  change,  as 
compared  with  the  preceding.  It  is  only  when  we  go  farther 
back,  to  the  Solly  Madonna,  that  we  appreciate  how  great 
is  Raphael's  progress.  It  is  the  same  lovely  type,  but  the 
beautiful  face  is  free  from  all  affectations  now^,  and  the 
mouth,  though  still  delicate,  is  natural.  The  face  is  serious, 
and  the  sensitive  obser\^er  wn'll  detect  a  fugitive  expression  of 
something  which  is  not  quite  happiness,  perhaps  a  haunting 
premonition,  or  it  may  be,  only  a  touch  of  embarrassment. 
The  adjustment  is  not  quite  perfect,  and  serenity  is  incom- 
plete. We  are  not  quite  clear  whether  this  is  an  accident 
or  a  studied  adaptation.  Raphael  has  shown  no  sign  as  yet 
of  Leonardo's  subtlety  in  dealing  wdth  these  faintest  shades 
of  feeling,  nor  is  he  later  disposed  to  represent  the  shadow 
upon  the  Madonna's  face.  None  the  less,  the  suggestion  w^e 
have  noticed  here  is  not  inappropriate,  and  the  Granduca  will 
remain  to  many  the  most  beautiful  of  Raphael's    creations. 

One  more  step,  however,  brings  us  to  the  full  realization 
of  Raphael's  early  ideal,  the  complete  transfiguring  of  the 
art  of  Perugino  and  of  Umbria.  It  is  significant  that  this 
next  step  was  taken  outside  of  Umbria  and  under  a  new 
influence.  The  place  was  Florence  and  the  influence  none 
other  than  that  of  the  great  Leonardo.  It  is  significant  both 
of  the  profound  naturalness  and  universaHty  of  Leonardo's 
art,  and  of  the  equanimity  of  Raphael's  temperament,  that 


C  149,  Madonna  del  Granduca.    Pitti,  Florence. 
Raphael,   1483-1520. 


Umbria  and  Her  Artist  267 

this  all-important  step  seems  to  us  a  perfectly  logical  contin- 
uation of  his  Umbrian  development.  Of  the  three  Madonnas 
painted  at  this  time,  la  Belle  Jardiniere  (C  156)  of  the  Louvre, 
Paris,  is  best  known,  but  not  the  most  significant.  The 
exquisite  Madonna  del  Prato  (C  158)  of  Vienna,  which  again 
many  would  put  first  in  Raphael's  long  list,  is  least  known. 
It  is  significant  as  being  the  only  one  which  retains  a  trace 
of  that  seriousness  bordering  on  sadness,  which  we  notice 
elsewhere  only  in  the  Granduca.  This  has  little  affinity  for 
the  temperament  of  either  Raphael  or  Leonardo,  but  is  easily 
accounted  for  by  the  traditional  theme. 

(C  151)  As  w^e  come  now  to  the  Madonna  of  the  Goldfinch 
(del  Cardellino)  of  the  famous  Tribuna  in  the  Uffizi,  Flor- 
ence, we  reach  the  fullest  expression  of  the  ideal  whose 
development  we  have  been  tracing,  an  expression  never 
surpassed  by  Raphael  or  any  other.  Moreover,  since  in  all 
Raphael's  later  work,  when  he  was  striving  for  vaster  effects 
and  consciously  pursuing  different  ideals,  we  trace  as  the 
most  irrepressible  element  in  his  art,  the  spirit  w^hich  is  here 
consciously  supreme,  we  are  justified  in  seeing  here  the  true 
Raphael.  Other  creations  of  Raphael  have  proved  more 
popular;  other  Madonnas  are  more  novel,  more  amazing, 
possibly  in  some  sense,  greater  art,  but  none  is  more  beautiful ; 
above  all,  none  is  more  representative  of  Raphael.  With  all 
his  passion  for  assimilating  the  spirit  and  manner  of  other 
artists,  Raphael  had  a  pronounced  temperament  of  his  own, 
which  never  surrendered  its  sway,  even  in  the  presence  of  the 
most  potent  and  alien  influences.  That  temperament  had 
found  favorable  environment  at  first  in  theJ  serene  provincial- 
ism of  Umbrian  tradition,  had  partially  emancipated  itself 
from  the  congenial  thralldom  of  Perugino's  cirt,  and  now  was 
fully  liberated  rather  than  modified  by  the  inspired  touch  of 
the  great  Florentine.     This  is  the  time  to  study  Raphael, 

Recalling  now  our  series,  the  Solly  Madonna,  the  maiden 
from  the  SpozaUzic,  the  Granduca,  let  us  notice  this  perfect 


C  156,  La  Belle  Jardiniere.    Louvre,  Paris.    Raphael,  1483-1520. 


C  158,  Madonna  del  Prato.     Imperial  Gallery,  Vienna. 
Raphael,  1483-1520. 


C  151,  Madonna  del  Cardellino  (Detail).    Uffizi,  Florence. 
Raphael,  1483-1520. 


Umhria  and  Her  Artist  271 

face.     It  is  not  diflficult  to  see  that  the  ideal  has  remained 

essentially  unchanged.  There  is  the  perfect  oval  face  toward 
which  all  have  tended,  the  same  lovely  blond  hair  in  its 
comely  arrangement,  the  same  guileless  purity  of  impulse. 
With  all  his  earlier  limitations  we  feel  that  he  meant  it  so 
from  the  first.  But  these  earlier  limitations  have  wholly  dis- 
appeared. There  is  perfect  refinement,  but  no  mannerism 
or  artificiality.  There  is  the  finest  imaginable  susceptibility, 
but  no  painful  misadjustment,  no  discords  in  the  perfect 
harmony  of  her  being.  The  shadow  of  spiritual  malaise 
which  we  see  in  the  Granduca  has  here  disappeared  before  the 
calm  sunshine  of  perfect  serenity.  It  is  impossible  to  think 
of  such  a  creature  as  having  learned  her  accomplishments  or 
acquired  her  charm.  By  some  rare  felicity  of  nature,  we 
have  here  a  glimpse  of  that  first  harmony,  when  life  was  set 
to  the  music  of  the  spheres.  It  is  equally  inconceivable  that 
such  a  creature  should  experience  the  conflict  of  emotions 
which  characterize  our  Christian  view  of  life.  Imagine  her 
under  "con\'iction  of  sin,"  striving  for  "peace  with  God." 
Try,  in  her  presence,  to  think  of  any  of  the  time-honored 
phrases  that  mirror  the  distracted  spirit  of  Christian  con- 
sciousness, and  the  dissonance  is  instantly  apparent.  And 
it  is  she  who  triumphs  in  our  thought.  The  discord  dies 
away,  ashamed,  in  the  presence  of  her  perfect  harmony. 
Like  a  sheltered  lake  whose  mirror  surface  is  ruffled  by  no 
unfriendly  breeze,  is  her  perfect  serenity,  a  serenity  which 
recalls  the  art  of  Hellas  in  the  golden  age  of  Praxiteles, 
a  serenity  which  Fra  Angelico  despaired  of  finding  in  a  world 
distraught,  and  turned  to  Heaven  to  find.  There  are  other 
ideals,  but  hardly  better  ideals.  There  is  more  than  one 
way  of  being  perfect,  but  this  is  perfection,  and  this  is 
Raphael. 

The  interest  of  this  wonderful  picture  centers  so  deeply  in 
the  face,  that  we  have  purposely  isolated  it,  reserving  our 
consideration  of  other  features  for  other  members  of  this 


272  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


remarkable  group  in  which  they  are  even  better  studied. 
Turning  to  these  more  general  features,  the  influence  of 
Leonardo  is  at  once  apparent.  There  is  the  nature  setting, 
the  relaxation  of  body  and  mind,  the  quiet  intimacy  and 
unconsciousness  of  formal  occasion  and  its  restraints,  which 
we  have  already  noted  as  the  innovation  of  the  great  master. 
Raphael's  early  Madonnas,  despite  their  simplicity,  have 
clearly  been  of  the  older  type.  They  stand  before  a  worship- 
ing world,  conscious  of  their  special  character,  and  with 
action  and  feeling  adjusted  to  it.  Nor  does  Raphael  wholly 
break  with  the  old  tradition.  His  Madonna  Ansidei  of 
London,  painted  later  than  this  for  chapel  purposes,  is 
extreme  in  its  conformity  to  tradition.  It  is  significant  of 
the  changed  allegiance  of  art,  that  the  Madonna  just  con- 
sidered was  painted  as  a  wedding  present,  and  its  companions 
for  similar  secular  occasions.  The  wider  horizon  of  Leonardo 
inevitably  stretched  beyond  the  confines  of  the  church. 

But  in  this  following  of  Leonardo,  it  is  interesting  to  note 
the  persistence  of  Raphael's  Umbrian  heritage,  and  his  unique 
ability  to  improve  what  he  borrowed.  Thus  the  landscape 
setting,  though  suggested  by  Leonardo,  is  not  in  the  least  like 
that  of  the  Mona  Lisa  or  the  Virgin  of  the  Rocks  (C  10,  12). 
'  It  is  of  the  quiet  and  lovely  Umbrian  type,  with  skies  and 
trees  of  Perugino's  kind.  The  pyramidal  group,  too,  so 
carefully  sought  by  Leonardo,  is  more  perfect  than  that  of 
the  London  cartoon,  and  more  plausible  and  pleasing  than 
that  of  the  Madonna  with  Saint  Anne.  That  which  Leonardo 
had  invented  and  Fra  Bartolommeo  had  mechanized, 
Raphael  has  perfected.  This  admirably  illustrates  the  rela- 
tive abilities  and  achievements  of  the  three  men.  Leonardo 
invents  but  never  perfects ;  Fra  Bartolommeo  never  invents, 
but  formulates  and  reduces  to  rule ;  Raphael  neither  invents 
nor  formulates,  but  assimilates  and  perfects  with  his  exquisite 
taste.  The  borrower  usually  degrades  and  misunderstands ; 
Raphael  always  improves  what  he  borrows.     Such  borrowing, 


Umbria  and  Her  Artist  273 

however  direct,  is  hardly  plagiarism,  or,  if  plagiarism,  it  is  a 
plagiarism  that  is  entitled  to  honor. 

The  list  of  Raphael's  later  Madonnas  is  a  long  one,  and 
marked  with  brilliant  achievement,  but  it  is  difi5cult  to  trace 
farther  the  consistent  development  of  an  ideal.  This  is  partly 
due  to  the  exhaustion  of  the  primary  theme,  —  for  it  was  as 
futile  to  try  to  surpass,  as  it  was  unsatisfactory  to  repeat  the 
Leonardo-Umbrian  type,  —  and  partly  to  his  permanent 
removal  to  Rome  w^here,  in  this  meeting  place  of  the  nations, 
his  susceptible  nature  was  exposed  to  a  multitude  of  influences 
which  even  his  genius  for  assimilation  could  not  fuse  into  a 
harmonious  ideal.  Mention  has  been  made  of  the  Madonna 
Ansidei  and  its  return  to  the  formal  religious  type,  a  type  for 
the  deeper  meaning  of  which  Raphael  shows  little  aptitude. 
Its  amazing  delicacy  and  refinement  scarcely  hft  it  from  the 
domain  of  symbolism,  into  the  higher  realm  of  inspired  art. 
The  Madonna  Garvagh,  which  hangs  close  beside  it  in  the 
London  Gallery,  a  w^ork  of  doubtful  authenticity,  is  uniquely 
rather  than  significantly  beautiful.  The  Madonna  di  Casa 
Tempi  in  Munich  carries  to  rather  extravagant  lengths 
the  new  nature  motive  of  Leonardo.  In  all  these  as  in  most 
of  his  later  works,  we  note  sporadic  experiments,  often  unsuc- 
cessful, sometimes  unworthy.  Only  in  rare  instances  does 
one  of  these  isolated  efforts  result  in  a  masterpiece.  Two 
such  call  for  special  notice. 

The  Madonna  of  the  Chair  (C  188)  rivals  the  Sistine  in 
popular  favor.  It  is  absolutely  of  the  nature  type,  religious 
suggestion  being  wholly  lacking,  but  the  artist  is  no  longer 
dependent  upon  the  green  fields  which  were  Leonardo's 
suggested  setting.  The  setting  is  an  interior  with  the  sim- 
plest of  detail.  The  picture  derives  its  significance  and  even 
its  popularity  with  the  untechnical,  primarily  from  its  superb 
composition  and  the  means  by  which  that  has  been  secured. 
It  is  the  culmination  of  a  series  of  experiments  in  composition 
for  the  round  frame.     These  experiments  are  most  familiar  to 


C  188,  Madonna  della  Sedia.    Pitti,  Florence. 
Raphael,  1483-1520. 


Umbria  and  Her  Artist  275 

us  in  the  work  of  Botticelli.  Beginning  with  the  almost 
planless  Madonna  of  the  Borghese  Gallery,  Rome,  we 
pass  to  the  Madonna  of  the  Lilies  in  Berlin,  and  to  the 
charming  tondo  of  the  London  Gallery,  in  both  of  which 
the  lines  seem  to  radiate  from  the  top  of  the  picture  down- 
ward. It  reminds  us  somewhat  of  Leonardo's  plan,  which  was 
obviously  not  designed  for  circular  pictures.  But  when  we 
come  to  the  famed  Madonna  of  the  Magnificat  (B  177),  the 
plan  completely  changes.  The  figures  are  turned  sidewise 
and  so  arranged  that  their  outline  suggests  the  curve  of  the 
frame  itself,  touching  the  frame  at  a  single  point  and  curving 
away  from  it  on  a  shortening  radius.  Note  the  angel  on  the 
left,  the  Madonna  on  the  right,  even  the  child,  while  the 
border  of  the  Madonna's  robe  and  other  details  are  sensitive 
to  the  same  curve  suggestion.  The  space  unaccounted  for 
is  left  in  the  center  of  the  picture  where  it  is  farthest  from  the 
frame  and  requires  least  adjustment  to  it.  It  is  an  admirable 
study.  Raphael's  picture  is  similar  but  simpler  and  better. 
A  single  spiral  dominates  the  whole,  guiding  the  eye  to  the. 
center  of  interest  as  surely  as  it  does  unconsciously.  This 
is  the  perfection  of  a  composition  which  BotticelU  had  already 
made  excellent. 

But  we  have  had  occasion  to  note  at  the  very  beginning  of 
our  studies,  in  connection  with  the  profound  insight  of  the 
Greek  artists,  how  important  it  is  that  composition  should 
have  its  inner  motive,  its  obvious  and  suflScient  justification. 
It  will  not  do  to  put  figures  arbitrarily  into  the  desired  place  or 
pose;  they  must  put  themselves  there,  quite  spontaneously 
and  willingly,  and  for  a  reason  which  we  can  understand  and 
with  which  we  can  sympathize.  The  noblest  example  we  have 
yet  found  of  a  composition  at  once  satisfactory  in  itself,  and 
worthily  motived,  is  the  Battle  of  Issus,  that  much  dimmed 
reflection  of  a  Greek  masterpiece. 

Comparing,  in  this  connection,  the  work  of  Botticelli  with 
that  of    Raphael,  we    see  how  far  superior  is  the  latter. 


B  177,  Madonna  of  the  Magnificat.     Uffizi,  Florence. 
Botticelli,  1447-1510. 


Umbria  and  Her  Artist  277 

Botticelli  wants  his  Madonna  to  lean  over,  and  so  he  makes 
her  reach  across  the  beautiful  illuminated  manuscript  to  dip 
her  pen  in  the  inkstand  which  the  Httle  angel  rather  unac- 
commodatingly  holds  back.  The  motive  by  which  Botticelli 
thus  secures  the  desired  pose  is  wholly  uninspiring,  not  to 
mention  the  suggestion  of  a  negligent  angel  and  a  possible 
ink-blot.  The  composition  is  excellent,  but  the  motive  is 
trivial,  arbitrary  and  inartistic. 

Raphael  secures  the  desired  composition  by  a  motive  per- 
fectly simple,  natural,  and  unforced,  and  what  is  far  more 
important,  a  motive  which  commands  instant  and  universal 
sympathy.  The  mother  bows  her  head  against  the  face  of 
her  babe  whom  she  holds  in  a  close  embrace,  with  a  spon- 
taneous outburst  of  maternal  tenderness  which  would  find 
recognition  and  sympathy  in  any  age  and  among  any  people. 
As  the  agonized  affection  of  Darius  speaks  to  us  across  the  ages, 
so  this  manifestation  of  maternal  tenderness,  decorous  but 
sincere,  carries  to  remotest  ages  a  message  which  no  change  of 
life  or  thought  can  ever  make  unwelcome  or  obscure.  The 
old  religious  significance  of  the  Madonna  has  totally  dis- 
appeared, but  we  seem  to  stand  in  an  even  holier  presence. 
All  honor  to  the  art  which  thus  finds  its  theme  in  the  holy  and 
eternal  things. 

(C  196)  The  Sistine  Madonna,  most  famous  of  Raphael's 
work,  belongs  to  a  late  period  of  his  art,  though  it  is  not,  as 
tradition  long  asserted,  his  last  Madonna.  Later  works, 
however,  bear  no  comparison  with  this  masterpiece,  and  it 
may  appropriately  close  our  study  of  this  important  phase 
of  Raphael's  work.  In  this  work  more  than  in  any  other, 
Raphael  shows  originality  of  a  high  order  and  a  perception 
of  some  of  the  profoundest  principles  of  art.  It  is  less 
characteristic  of  Raphael's  temperament  than  the  exquisite 
productions  of  an  earlier  day,  nor  have  the  many  influences 
to  which  Raphael  in  this  later  day  was  so  willingly  subject, 
brought  anything  to  compensate  for  the  loss  of  the  Perugino 


C  190,  Madonna  di  San  bisto.     Gallery,  Diedden. 
Raphael,  1483-1520. 


Umbria  and  Her  Artist  279 

influence  which  seems  to  have  quite  disappeared.  In  coloring, 
and  in  the  infinite  perfectness  of  his  workmanship,  the  work 
compares  unfavorably  with  the  lovely  Madonnas  of  the 
Leonardo  period.  But  these  things  are  forgotten  and  should 
be  forgotten  in  the  presence  of  a  conception  so  noble,  so 
original  as  this. 

We  have  seen  that  the  ecclesiastical  and  formal  conception 
of  the  Madonna,  in  vogue  during  the  first  two  centuries  of 
the  Renaissance,  yielded,  under  the  influence  of  Leonardo,  to 
the  informal  and  natural  conception,  with  emphasis  upon 
feminine  rather  than  upon  religious  ideals,  and  upon  natural 
rather  than  symboHcal  motives.  It  is  convenient,  if  not 
altogether  adequate,  to  speak  of  the  one  as  the  ecclesiastical 
and  the  other  as  the  nature  Madonna.  Both  are,  or  may  be, 
in  a  high  sense,  religious.  We  have  seen  that  Raphael,  while 
occasionally  painting  for  religious  purposes  an  ecclesiastical 
Madonna  of  the  most  traditional  type  (the  Madonna 
Ansidei),  is  immediately  attracted  by  Leonardo's  new  nature 
type,  and  paints  the  Madonnas  designed  for  gifts,  and  there- 
fore freely  expressing  his  personal  taste,  in  this  new  character. 
This  new  motive  he  elaborates  with  many,  though  not 
deeply  significant,  variations.  The  Madonna  caresses  the 
child  instead  of  watching  him  at  play ;  the  interior  setting  is 
substituted  for  the  exterior,  and  so  forth.  But  these  are 
only  natural  developments  of  a  theme  which,  in  essence,  we 
owe  to  Leonardo. 

As  we  attempt  to  assign  the  Sistine  Madonna  to  its  place, 
we  are  immediately  conscious  that  we  have  a  new  type, 
neither  the  ecclesiastical  nor  the  nature  Madonna,  but  one 
requiring  a  third  category,  in  which,  however,  it  stands  alone. 
The  Madonna  is  not  seated  upon  the  throne  or  composed  for 
a  formal  occasion,  and  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  attendant 
saints,  the  suggestion  is  not  that  of  homage  or  worship.  Still 
less  is  this  the  nature  Madonna,  care  free  and  filled  with 
thoughts  of  children's  play  or  maternal   tenderness.    We 


28o  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

have  no  question  as  to  her  love  for  the  child,  —  such  a  child, 
—  but  for  her  to  turn  her  attention  toward  it  to  embrace  or 
caress  it,  is  unthinkable.  There  is  something  else  which 
fills  all  minds  and  hearts  at  .this  moment  with  palpitating 
emotion.  The  Madonna  is  here  conceived  as  a  celestial 
being,  who  appears  upon  the  clouds  of  heaven  and  gazes  with 
eyes  big  with  wonder  that  just  hints  of  anxiety  and  fear,  at 
the  great  world  which,  unconscious,  suffering,  sordid  and  in- 
scrutable, reveals  itself  to  her  gaze.  Nothing  can  surpass  the 
suggestiveness  of  this  gaze,  in  which  the  unconfused  sim- 
plicity of  childhood  is  tinged  with  the  consciousness  of  the 
world's  sorrow  and  the  faint  foreboding  of  a  Saviour's  pain. 
And  in  admirable  contrast  is  the  face  of  the  child,  the  artist's 
supreme  triumph,  whose  wondrous  eyes  reveal  a  calm  which 
partakes  less  of  the  unconsciousness  of  childhood  than  of 
the  infinite  repose  of  the  divine.  The  picture  is  as  unique 
in  the  whole  range  of  Christian  art  as  in  the  art  of  Raphael 
him:elf.  To  be  sure,  there  are  plenty  of  pictures  which 
represent  the  Madonna  among  the  clouds,  usually  ascending 
and  contemplating  heaven  rather  than  earth.  There  are 
numerous  Coronations  of  the  Virgin,  which  give  us  ostensibly 
the  celestial  rather  than  the  earthly  Madonna.  But  these 
differences  are  ordinarily  purely  nominal.  The  Madonna 
gazes,  for  the  most  part,  from  her  cloudy  cushions,  with 
the  same  unemotional  complacency  as  from  a  cushioned 
divan,  and  she  receives  the  crown  with  no  hint  in  face  or 
posture  that  she  has  grown  to  the  part.  Everywhere  it  is 
objective,  materialistic,  symbolistic.  You  know  she  is 
going  to  Heaven  because  she  is  standing  on  clouds  instead 
of  earth.  You  know  she  is  Queen  of  Heaven  because  the 
crown  is  being  placed  upon  her  head.  How  tired  we  get  of 
all  this  sanctity  which  is  a  thing  of  outward  signs  !  The  few 
great  pictures  of  the  world  are  those  in  which  the  meaning  is 
inherent,  not  attached.  She  is  Queen  of  Heaven  even  with- 
out her  crown,  and  Queen  of  Heaven  still  on  earth,  for  Heaven 


Umbria  and  Her  Artist  281 

follows  where  she  goes.  Among  such  pictures  the  Sistine 
Madonna  must  always  be  accorded  a  foremost  place. 

As  we  revert  in  thought  to  the  rarity  of  this  creative 
imagination  in  Raphael's  work,  his  constant  inclination  to 
borrow  from  other  painters  motives  which  they  have  but 
imperfectly  expressed  and  to  find  his  opportunity  in  com- 
pleting their  task,  we  are  constrained  to  seek  an  explanation 
of  this  extraordinary  production.  We  find  no  prototype  for 
the  Sistine  in  any  other  known  work.  We  must  rather  seek 
it  in  Raphael's  own.  The  so-called  Donna  Velata  (C  194)  is 
an  admirable  portrait  of  not  far  from  the  same  period.  There 
is  some  reason  to  believe  that  it  is  the  portrait  of  a  woman 
to  whom  Raphael  was  devotedly  attached  and  to  whom  he 
long  maintained  a  relation  of  affectionate  intimacy.  Her 
striking  personal  characteristic  seems  to  have  been  the  large, 
lustrous  brown  eyes  which  gaze  so  impressively  from  the 
portrait.  Eyes  so  large,  so  wide  open,  so  lustrous  and  appeal- 
ing, easily  impress  us  with  the  suggestion  of  unusual  sen- 
timents. If 'serious,  they  are  suggestive  of  wonder;  if  the 
mood  be  a  trifle  somber,  they  deepen  the  suggestion  of  pathos. 
Daily  life  furnishes  abundant  examples. 

Imagine  the  impression  which  these  deep  and  haunting 
eyes  must  make,  in  long  association,  upon  a  spirit  whose 
natural  extreme  susceptibility  was  quickened  by  ardent 
affection.  Those  wondering  eyes,  so  often  seen  in  uncon- 
scious musing  by  the  fireside,  had  a  suggestiveness  too  beau- 
tiful to  be  lost.  But  where  would  it  find  its  place  in  art? 
Not  in  the  Madonna  of  the  throne.  She  must  not  wonder  or 
haunt  you  with  her  gaze.  She  must  receive  your  homage 
with  formal  composure.  Not  in  the  Madonna  of  the  fields 
and  of  the  quiet  nature  setting.  Naturalness  is  not  an  occa- 
sion for  wonder,  and  this  deep  seriousness  tinged  with  pathos 
has  no  place  in  the  beautiful  serenity  of  mother  love.  The 
traditional  art  offered  no  place  where  these  eyes  could  find  a 
justification   for   their   deeper   suggestion.     Spurred  on   by 


C  194,  Donna  Velata.     Pitti,  Florence.    Raphael,  1483-1520. 


Umbria  and  Her  Artist  283 

affection,  Raphael  finds  the  place  in  a  new  creation,  unique 
in  all  Christian  art,  and  noble  as  it  is  unique. 

The  Sistine  Madonna  is  undoubtedly  an  idealized  portrait 
of  this  object  of  Raphael's  affection.  The  resemblance  to 
the  Donna  Velata  is  unmistakable.  Yet  the  sympathetic 
observer  will  be  quick  to  recognize  that  with  all  this  resem- 
blance, the  gulf  between  the  two  is  profound.  Raphael  has 
not  repeated  the  impertinence  of  Fra  Lippo.  The  Madonna 
has  not  been  degraded  to  the  level  of  a  woman ;  the  woman 
has  been  exalted  to  the  level  of  the  Madonna.  Nothing  could 
better  illustrate  the  true  character  of  art,  its  essentially 
creative  rather  than  imitative  role,  than  a  comparison  of 
these  two  pictures  which  owe  their  origin  to  a  single  woman. 
In  the  one  the  woman  appears,  at  her  best,  but  still  the 
woman.  In  the  other  she  is  transfigured.  She  has  but 
furnished  the  suggestion  for  an  inspired  imagination.  So 
much,  and  only  so  much,  she  may  legitimately  do. 

It  seems  ungracious,  in  the  presence  of  such  a  work,  to 
note  the  artist's  limitations.  Were  it  not  that  they  are 
significantly  present,  we  might  well  forego  the  unwelcome 
task.  Of  the  mother  and  child  enough  has  been  said,  and 
nothing  can  be  said  save  in  praise.  The  cherubs  below  are 
again  in  lovehest  harmony  with  the  Christ  Child  whose 
beauty  and  heavenly  repose  they  plainly  reflect.  No  whit 
inferior,  too,  is  the  noble  Saint  Sixtus,  whose  intense  absorp- 
tion, not  merely  in  the  apparition  of  the  Madonna,  but  in  the 
deep  emotion  which  fills  her  bosom  as  she  gazes  upon  the 
world  which  he  points  out  below,  contributes  magnificently 
to  the  impressiveness  of  the  whole.  But  the  Santa  Barbara 
to  the  right  does  not  thus  add  herself  to  the  larger  whole. 
Kneeling  in  seeming  devotion,  she  turns  the  perfect  oval  of 
her  face  toward  the  spectator  for  reasons  which,  however 
innocent  under  other  conditions,  are  here  disturbing.  In- 
genuity is  taxed  to  explai^  satisfactorily  this  discordant  note. 
She  is  looking  toward  the  outspread  world;   she  is  turning 


284  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

away  from  the  dazzling  brightness  of  the  Madonna,  and  so 
forth.  But  she  obviously  is  doing  neither.  She  is  not  looking 
at  anything  or  looking  away  from  anything.  The  suggestion 
is  one  of  modest  complacency,  of  delicate  consciousness  that 
she  is  being  looked  at.  In  the  pictures  of  this  later  period 
which  are  more  complex  and  ambitious  than  those  of  an 
earlier  dg^y,  this  feature  of  irrelevant  prettiness  is  seldom 
absent.  Santa  Barbara  turns  her  face  because  it  is  a  pretty 
face,  and  Raphael  never  enters  so  deeply  into  the  spirit  of  a 
great  theme  that  he  can  resist  the  appeal  of  a  pretty  face. 
In  pictures  where  quiet,  reposeful  charm  is  the  pervasive 
characteristic,  this  mildly  obtrusive  beauty  love  is  little 
noticed,  but  in  a  picture  deeply  imbued  with  some  great 
passion,  or  representing  some  significant  incident,  the  con- 
scious appeal  of  a  pretty  face  is  disturbing.  Such  themes 
as  these,  themes  essentially  dramatic  in  character,  Raphael 
was  ill  fitted  by  nature  to  treat.  The  age  in  which 
he  lived  had  learned  to  care  for  them  above  all  else.  The 
example  of  Leonardo's  Battle  of  Anghiari  and  the  Last 
Supper,  and  even  more,  of  Michelangelo's  great  works  with 
their  all-dominating  emotion,  gave  countenance  to  the  ten- 
dency of  the  age.  The  Sistine  Madonna,  so  deeply  imbued 
with  sublime  feeling,  is  Raphael's  one  successful  attempt  at  a 
spiritually  dramatic  theme.  It  is  a  matter  neither  for  sur- 
prise nor  for  serious  criticism  that  it  shows  traces  of  a  tem- 
perament more  at  home  in  other  themes. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

RAPHAEL   IN   ROME 

We  have  thus  far  known  Raphael  only  in  Umbria  and  in 
Florence.  Born  and  bred  in  Umbria  and  deeply  imbued 
with  Umbrian  tradition  to  which  his  nature  was  most  congen- 
ial, his  sojourn  in  Florence  did  not  seriously  modify  his 
Umbrian  character.  This  was  the  more  true  because  he 
seems  to  have  been  little  known  in  Florence  and  to  have  had 
no  standing  alongside  Leonardo  and  Michelangelo.  Even- 
Perugino  appears  to  have  been  more  esteemed  than  Raphael, 
if  we  may  judge  by  the  large  commissions  given  him,  not  only 
in  remoter  parts  of  Italy  but  in  Florence  itself,  while  Raphael 
found  employment  only  in  Umbria  or  by  Umbrian  patrons. 
This  tended  to  perpetuate  his  Umbrian  manner.  The  beau- 
tiful works  which  reflect  Leonardo's  influence  found  no 
purchasers.  Perhaps  a  lively  popularity  and  a  number  of 
Florentine  commissions  during  this  period  would  have  trans- 
formed the  susceptible  young  artist  into  the  Florentine  type, 
but  as  it  was,  he  left  Florence,  not  without  deep  indebtedness 
to  Leonardo  and  others,  but  almost  as  Umbrian  as  he  came. 
Florence  had  merely  stimulated  him  to  the  fuller  realization 
of  his  Umbrian  ideals,  serenity,  refinement  and  reposeful 
harmony.  He  seems  to  have  caught  nothing  of  the  vivacity 
of  Giotto's  narratives,  or  the  instinctive  realism  of  Masaccio's 
shivering  youth,  or  the  dramatic  intensity  of  the  Battle  of 
Anghiari,  or  the  pathos  of  even  the  earlier  Michelangelo 
works.  That  he  escaped  at  this  time  influences  so  far  from 
his  nature,  was  probably  due  to  his  immaturity  and  to  his 
absorption  in  problems  nearer  at  hand. 

28s 


286  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


Raphael  is  best  known  to  us,  however,  as  a  citizen  of  Rome, 
where  he  passed  the  last  twelve  years  of  his  brief  life.  It  was 
the  most  splendid  period  in  the  history  of  papal  Rome,  and 
the  great  metropolis,  still  central  in  men's  thoughts,  was 
drawing  to  herself  both  the  tribute  and  the  talent  of  the 
Christian  world.  The  contrast  with  Umbria  was  the  greatest 
possible.  Life  in  the  one  was  tranquil  and  centered  about 
simple  and  harmonious  ideals.  In  the  other  it  was  turbulent, 
and  subject  to  powerful  and  varied  influences.  As  the 
young  Raphael  was  called  to  Rome  by  no  less  a  patron  than 
the  pope,  and  thus  put  at  once  and  forever  beyond  the  reach 
of  Umbrian  patrons,  the  conservative  Umbrian  influence  was 
wholly  removed.  With  powers  fully  matured,  early  ideals 
somewhat  outgrown,  the  stimulus  of  great  commissions  and 
large  rewards,  and  the  example  of  other  artists  whom  it  was 
his  passion  to  emulate,  Raphael  underwent  a  transformation 
so  rapid  and  complete  that  we  hardly  recognize  him  under 
these  changed  conditions.  Yet  in  the  variable  alloy  of  this 
much  influenced  later  work,  we  can  still  easily  discern 
Raphael's  self  as  the  main  ingredient.  Personality  may 
be  disguised,  but  never  permanently  suppressed. 

The  sudden  change  which  accompanied  Raphael's  transfer 
to  Rome  was  accentuated  by  special  conditions.  As  we 
shall  have  occasion  to  note  in  connection  with  Michelangelo, 
it  was  the  good  pleasure  of  the  enemies  of  the  great  Florentine 
to  unite  in  an  effort  to  push  Raphael  to  the  fore.  This 
espousal  of  his  cause  had  its  ulterior  motives,  but  it  was  none 
the  less  genuine  and  sincere.  Raphael  had  the  invaluable 
gift  of  everywhere  evoking  affection.  His  infinite  serenity, 
apparently  untroubled  by  any  echoes  of  sadness,  was  a  thing 
so  lovable  that  even  with  less  of  genius  he  would  have  been 
one  of  the  most  beloved  of  men.  Add  to  this  his  rare  taste, 
his  absolute  facility  and  adaptability,  and  his  passion  for 
assimilating  the  ideas  and  spirit  of  all  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact,  and  his  claim  upon  the  affection  of  men  was  com- 


Raphael  in  Rome  287 


plete.  It  mattered  not  that  men  like  Bramante  found  Raphael 
a  convenient  pretext  for  their  opposition  to  Michelangelo. 
Even  without  this  reason  he  could  hardly  have  lacked  their 
enthusiastic  support.  His  pathway,  therefore,  was  made 
smooth,  too  smooth,  in  fact,  for  it  was  Raphael's  misfortune 
to  find  tempting  opportunity  open  in  every  direction,  and 
with  his  facile  and  adaptable  nature,  he  did  not  always  know 
where  to  draw  the  line.  Coming  upon  the  scene  at  the 
moment  when  Michelangelo  held  all  attention,  his  greatest 
opportunity  came  almost  at  the  outset.  The  pope,  to  be 
sure,  refused  absolutely  the  request  of  his  friends  that  he 
should  be  given  a  part  in  the  Sistine  Ceiling.  Doubtless  he 
desired  that  opportunity.  Beyond  question  he  would  have 
given  us  works  of  high  merit,  however  incongruous  with  the 
work  of  the  greater  master.  But  if  the  refusal  brought  dis- 
appointment there  was  no  trace  of  it  in  Raphael's  demeanor. 
The  refusal  was  accompanied,  by  way  of  compensation,  by  a 
commission  to  paint  the  so-called  Stanze,  or  Apartments  of 
the  Vatican,  a  series  of  rooms  whose  original  function  was 
varied,  and  whose  subsequent  use  has  been  merely  to  house 
the  most  famous  of  Raphael's  creations.  Like  the  Sistine 
Ceiling,  these  Stanze  had  already  been  decorated,  and  in 
part  at  least,  by  artists  of  high  merit,  some  of  the  decorations 
having  been  barely  completed.  The  ruthlessness  of  this  time 
is  more  or  less  characteristic  of  every  creative  age.  Inferior 
work  should  not  stand  in  the  way  of  the  more  perfect  pos- 
sibilities of  the  time.  And  so  as  the  earlier  ceiling  was 
destroyed  to  make  way  for  Michelangelo's  creations,  the 
decorations  upon  the  walls  of  these  apartments  were  de- 
stroyed to  make  way  for  those  of  Raphael.  They  were 
doubtless  of  unequal  merit,  but  some  of  them  certainly  we 
lose  with  regret.  In  one  case  Raphael  deliberately  refused 
to  destroy  the  work  of  a  predecessor,  the  splendid  ceiling 
by  his  own  master,  Perugino.  Posterity  has  certainly  honored 
him  for  the  refusal.     The  ceiling  is  one  of  the   finest  of 


288  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Perugino's  works,  and  so  far  superior  to  any  that  Raphael  or 
his  helpers  executed  in  the  adjoining  rooms  that  it  raises  the 
query  whether  in  other  connections  the  loss  has  been  com- 
pensated by  the  gain.  It  is  certainly  a  matter  for  regret 
that  Pope  Julius  could  not  have  found  vacant  walls  for 
Raphael's  use. 

In  the  prosecution  of  this  work  Raphael  stands  in  marked 
contrast  with  Michelangelo.  His  lease  of  Hfe  was  short, 
but  this  at  the  outset  he  could  not  know.  The  work  dragged 
on  slowly,  interrupted  at  frequent  intervals,  and,  worst  of  all, 
broken  by  continuous  and  repeated  changes  in  the  artist's 
ideals  and  methods.  The  marvel  of  the  Sistine  Ceiling  is 
that  in  all  its  vastness  there  is  such  a  unity  of  spirit.  The 
opposite  is  true  of  Raphael's  work.  The  greatest  diversities 
of  manner  and  inequality  of  thought  and  spirit  characterize 
these  works  that  come  most  unequally  from  his  hand.  In 
our  tour  of  the  Stanze  we  first  enter  the  so-called  Room  of 
the  Conflagration  (Sala  del  Incendio),  which  takes  its  name 
from  Raphael's  picture  upon  the  main  wall.  It  is  here  that 
Raphael  has  preserved  the  ceiling  executed  by  his  master. 
It  is  a  beautiful  design  in  blue  and  gold,  a  splendid  decorative 
scheme  in  color,  with  little  of  the  pictorial  even  in  the  great 
medallions  that  fill  the  triangular  spaces  of  the  intersecting 
vaults.  For  the  most  part  only  flat  design  covers  the  ceiling, 
leaving  the  shape  of  the  vaults  undimmed,  the  medallion 
pictures  themselves  being  greatly  subdued  as  regards  their 
pictorial  character.  The  gentle  refinement  of  Perugino's 
manner  is  manifest  in  the  whole.  Only  perhaps  in  the  mas- 
sive decorative  lines  that  map  out  the  seams  of  the  vaulting 
and  so  the  structure  of  the  building,  is  there  a  bit  of  surfeit 
in  the  wealth  of  detail  that  the  artist  has  lavished  upon  his 
work.  All  in  all,  however,  considering  the  fidelity  with  which 
the  artist  has  stuck  to  his  architecture  and  made  that  deter- 
mine his  design,  the  brilliancy  and  refinement  of  his  color  and 
the  subordination  of  his  pictorial  effect,  we  must  call  this  one 


Raphael  in  Rome  289 


of  the  finest  wall  decorations  in  Rome.  Merely  as  a  decora- 
tion, that  is,  the  beautifying  of  a  thing  whose  own  character 
is  recognized  and  respected,  it  is  far  superior  to  Michelangelo's 
immortal  ceiling.  The  decorative  quality  of  the  Sistine 
Ceiling  is  admittedly  subordinated  to  its  vaster  spiritual 
suggestion.  Not  so  with  Perugino  ;  there  is  not  too  much  to 
think  about  in  his  decoration  as  such.  There  should  not  be. 
The  mind  is  left  relatively  free  to  deal  with  the  larger  concept 
of  the  building  itself.  When  we  pass  to  the  next  room,  most 
famous  in  Raphael's  work,  we  shall  at  once  see  the  superiority 
of  Perugino's  design.  There  is  a  certain  similarity  between  the 
two.  Here  again  there  is  beautiful  coloring,  wealth  of  detail, 
even  charming  faces  and  pictorial  effect,  but  the  artist  of 
feebler  decorative  sense  has  moved  his  medallions  round, 
right  across  the  ribs  or  seams  in  which  the  vaultings  join, 
these  junctures  being  pared  down  or  obscured  in  order  that 
his  medallions  may  find  a  place  upon  the  curved  surface. 
Everywhere  he  has  broken  the  architectural  line,  flouted, 
ignored  it.  With  all  its  elegant  detail,  it  is  deliberately  and 
egregiously  bad  as  a  decoration. 

But,  passing  from  the  ceiling,  it  will  suffice  to  notice  briefly 
Raphael's  work  upon  the  walls  of  this  first  apartment.  It  is 
not  his  earliest  work  nor  in  any  sense  his  best.  If  there  is  one 
thing  clearer  than  another  it  is  that  Raphael  was  not  pri- 
marily dramatic.  The  essence  of  the  dramatic  is  to  seize  upon 
momentary  situations  and  interpret  them  primarily  in  terms 
of  passion.  Not  a  character  with  its  permanent  potentiality, 
but  a  moment  with  its  unexpected  conjunction  of  passion; 
character  torn  by  contrasted  impulses  and  revealing  itself 
by  its  choice  under  these  strange  circumstances ;  that  is  the 
essence  of  the  dramatic. 

Now  this  is  very  far  from  being  the  natural  theme  in  paint- 
ing. In  pictures  we  may  represent  the  relations  of  people  in 
space  but  we  can  only  give  a  single  moment  of  time.  We 
cannot  represent  what  happened  before  or  happened  after. 


290  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Moreover,  the  moment  which  we  do  give,  we  cannot  give  as 
a  moment ;  it  becomes  fixed  and  permanent.  It  is  obvious 
that  the  things  of  the  moment  do  not  fit  in  a  thing  so  per- 
manent, so  static;  still  less  things  that  involve  successive 
moments,  different  one  from  another.  All  that  is  a  truism 
of  art  criticism,  though  the  artist  will  never  get  over  the  desire 
to  somehow  triumph  over  these  limitations  of  his  art,  and  if 
highly  gifted  with  the  power  of  psychic  suggestion,  as  was 
Giotto,  Michelangelo,  or  Titian,  he  can  accomplish  wonders 
in  making  his  art  do  the  impossible.  But  if  his  sympathies 
are  rather  with  the  reposeful,  the  placid  and  the  calm,  he  will 
feel  most  keenly  these  limitations  inherent  in  his  art  and  will 
find  the  line  of  least  resistance,  —  that  is  the  line  of  greatest 
achievement,  —  in  quite  a  different  direction.  Such  was 
Raphael.  He  had  nothing  of  the  tremendous  passion  of 
Michelangelo ;  his  very  power  and  beauty  lay  in  his  freedom 
from  it.  Yet  the  age,  led  irresistibly  by  the  genius  of  Michel- 
angelo, craved  this  new  and  difficult  theme  in  art.  To  be 
dramatic,  to  give  us  not  the  serenely  beautiful  but  the  soul- 
stirring  —  that  was  the  desire  of  the  age,  and  particularly 
of  Rome,  where  men  had  been  most  aroused  to  this  new 
possibility. 

The  fresco  in  this  first  room  is  an  attempt  on  Raphael's 
part  to  meet  this  new  demand  for  dramatic  compositions. 
It  tells  us  an  old  story  of  a  conflagration  that  broke  out  in  the 
Borgo,  or  suburb  of  Rome  in  which  St.  Peter's  is  situated,  and 
of  the  miraculous  extinguishing  of  the  fire  by  the  pope  who 
appeared  in  a  balcony  holding  the  sacred  Host.  Raphael  has 
placed  both  pope  and  miracle  quite  in  the  background,  but 
with  little  profit,  for  the  foreground  is  occupied  by  figures 
unplausibly  chosen  and  disposed,  who  are  supposed  to  repre- 
sent the  confusion  and  disarray  caused  by  the  fire  but  who, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  represent  primarily  Raphael's 
emulation  of  Michelangelo's  powerful  nudes.  The  youth 
escaping  over  the  wall  and  hanging  by  his  fingers  is  the  one 


Raphael  in  Rome  291 

thing  that  remains  in  memory  as  we  leave  this  extraordinary 
work.  He  is  a  conspicuous,  not  to  say  an  impertinent  display 
of  anatomical  knowledge.  Hardly  more  satisfactory  are  the 
group  of  women  who,  with  charming  contour  and  inane  ges- 
tures, fill  the  middle  foreground  of  the  picture.  It  may  be 
that  our  knowledge  of  feminine  character  furnishes  justifica- 
tion for  the  silly  and  helpless  posing  that  this  group  displays, 
but  at  least  it  is  not  the  feminine  at  its  best.  No,  this  is 
cheap  theater,  not  life,  and  the  painter  of  the  ineffable 
Madonna  is  here  wasting  his  time.  It  must  only  be  remem- 
bered in  extenuation  that  he  was  but  partially  responsible 
for  the  choice. 

We  will  hasten  to  the  next  room  which  is  the  crowning 
glory  of  Raphael's  later  work.  Here,  upon  these  four  walls, 
we  find,  not  indeed  the  thing  that  charmed  us  most  in  the 
youthful  days  of  Perugia  and  Florence,  but  the  thing  that 
charmed,  and  justly  charmed  his  contemporaries.  Here  is 
seen  at  its  best  that  beautiful  symmetry  and  unconstrained 
grace  of  grouping  which  characterizes  his  work  here  above 
all  others.  We  will  begin  with  the  scarce  noticed  wall  on 
the  farther  side.  It  is  the  smallest  of  the  four  and  offers 
but  a  long  and  slender  sector  of  a  circle  in  which  to  dispose  his 
figures.  Prudence,  Force,  and  Moderation  (C  169)  are  the 
names  they  bear,  but  any  others  will  do  as  well.  It  would 
certainly  baffle  the  most  acute  analysis  to  know  why  these 
names  are  applied,  or  which  of  the  figures  should  lay  claim  to 
each.  But  that  need  not  greatly  concern  us.  Such  names 
suggest  the  most  arid  themes  in  art,  themes  that,  unless 
embodied  in  some  concrete  situation  or  circumstance,  are 
little  more  than  intellectual  concepts,  themes  for  philosophy 
rather  than  for  art.  Raphael  is  the  last  man  to  take  such 
themes  seriously.  But  if  their  interpretive  value  is  slight, 
their  decorative  charm  is  superlative.  Of  all  painters  that 
the  Renaissance  knew,  none  succeeded  so  well  as  Raphael 
in  adjusting  a  group  of  figures  in  a  space,  more  particularly, 


Raphael  in  Rome  293 

an  unusual  space,  in  such  a  way  that  the  space  seemed  made 
to  order,  the  only  possible  space  that  could  accommodate  lines 
and  groupings  whose  beauty  sufficiently  explained  their 
existence.  The  way  in  which  the  curves,  longer  and  shorter, 
echo  the  confining  curve  and  thus  make  hidden  music  within 
its  space,  is  simply  above  all  praise.  It  is  the  perfection  of  a 
single  plane  decorative  composition,  for  decorative,  rather 
than  pictorial;  it  obviously  is.  There  is  no  far-reaching 
vista  or  spacious  background,  there  is  no  enveloping  light 
and  shadow  or  subsidiary  detail,  just  a  beautiful  group  of 
figures,  arranged  in  a  single  plane  and  for  reasons  of  their  own, 
not  too  serious  but  quite  sufficient,  weaving  themselves  into 
a  pattern  so  exquisite  that  it  commands  our  unqualified  ad- 
miration. This  we  may  take  as  a  model,  perhaps,  of  the 
higher  decorative  feeling  of  the  Renaissance  in  its  simpler 
form.  Beyond  this  there  is  nothing  of  moment  in  the  pic- 
ture, and  the  observer  who  appreciates  this,  will  crave 
nothing  more. 

The  wall  on  the  right  is  better  known  and,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  its  rival  opposite,  is  the  most  famous  creation  of 
the  master.  It  is  interesting  to  note,  by  the  way,  that  all 
of  these  pictures  which  the  public  has  deemed  worthy  of 
fame  have  been  renamed.  The  subjects  of  the  frescoes  upon 
these  three  walls,  as  Raphael  would  have  given  them,  seem 
to  have  been.  Divine  Philosophy,  Secular  Philosophy,  and 
Poetry.  It  is  not  without  significance  that  they  are  popularly 
known  as  the  Discussion  (Disputa)  Concerning  the  Trinity, 
the  School  of  Athens,  and  Parnassus.  Something  concrete 
the  popular  mind  demands,  and  if  official  titles  do  not  give 
it,  so  much  the  worse  for  official  titles. 

(C  160)  The  Disputa  is  an  astonishing  work.  We  no  longer 
have  a  group  of  figures  arranged  in  a  single  perpendicular  plane, 
outUning  themselves  in  a  charming  pattern  as  in  the  fresco 
already  considered.  The  space  was  much  too  large  for  that, 
and  Raphael's  purpose  much  too  ambitious.     First  and  low- 


Raphael  in  Rome  295 

est  of  all,  there  is  a  pavement  which  looks  much  as  though  it. 
were  going  to  be  the  pavement  of  a  church.  In  the  rear  is 
a  raised  platform  where  we  find,  as  we  expect,  the  altar  and 
upon  the  altar  the  Host,  the  most  significant  symbol  of  the 
church.  But,  amazing  to  relate,  we  find  no  church  about  it. 
We  look  over  the  heads  of  the  spectators,  grouped  on  either 
side,  into  a  landscape,  all  delicate,  Umbrian,  charming,  such 
as  Raphael  had  learned  from  Perugino.  Nothing  could  well 
be  more  unplausible  than  this,  but  we  readily  forgive  its 
unplausibility.  Above  this  landscape  vista  we  come  next  to  a 
mass  of  clouds,  but  curious  to  relate,  these  clouds,  instead  of 
being  formless  and  irregular,  as  clouds  are  wont  to  be,  now 
range  themselves  with  architectural  regularity  into  a  curving 
platform,  and  on  this  platform  sit  in  most  beautiful  symmetry 
the  worthies  of  the  church,  the  Christ  himself  in  the  center, 
above  his  head  the  Dove,  and  higher  still,  the  figure  of  God 
the  Father,  thus  representing  in  conventional  form  the 
Trinity.  This,  aided  by  the  lively  conversation  going  on 
below,  has  given  the  picture  its  popular  name.  And  now 
above  these  worthies  and  these  sacred  symbols  we  find 
angels,  grouped  again  in  beautiful  regularity,  and  other  angels 
still,  the  very  substance  of  clouds,  that  in  infinite  profusion 
fill  the  cloudy  vault,  again  with  dome-like  regularity.  And 
this  time  their  character  is  farther  enhanced  by  long  streaming 
rays  of  light  that  descend  from  the  central  point  above.  In  a 
word,  we  start  with  architecture,  and  suddenly  change  our 
minds  and  take  in  the  charm  of  out  of  doors,  and  then  when 
we  are  accustomed  to  that,  we  rise  to  the  clouds  and  as 
suddenly  the  clouds  become  architectural  and  build  the  come- 
liest  of  domed  backgrounds  in  the  upper  part  of  the  scene. 
The  conception  is  as  surprising  as  it  is  pleasing.  It  is  no 
small  tribute  to  our  artist  that  the  work  pleases  despite  our 
surprise. 

But  if  we  ask  what  it  is  that  has  made  this  picture  so 
famous,  what  new  principle  it  illustrates,  what  signal  triumph 


296  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


it  embodies,  we  must  venture  somewhat  farther  into  an 
inquiry  which  has  already  engaged  our  attention.  This  is 
perhaps  the  time  to  note  more  exactly  the  few  facts  with 
which  even  the  popular  student  of  art  must  be  equipped 
regarding  the  great  subject  of  composition.  Of  its  subtleties 
and  intricacies  we  will  take  no  account.  Of  its  fundamental 
character  and  needs  it  is  impossible  that  we  should  remain 
unconscious. 

We  walk  out  of  a  summer  afternoon  to  some  beautiful 
spot  where  a  garden  party  is  being  held.  Ladies  in  charming 
dresses  are  wandering  about,  it  may  be  a  class  of  "sweet  girl 
graduates,"  or  other.  As  we  gaze  upon  them,  with  the  set- 
ting of  shrubbery  and  natural  beauty,  nothing  seems  wanting 
to  the  perfection  of  the  scene.  But  let  the  photographer 
appear  and  prepare  to  take  a  picture  of  the  scene,  and  instantly 
all  is  changed.  These  people  know  by  instinct  that  the 
photograph  must  be  differently  planned.  They  gather  into 
formal  groups,  arranged  with  reference  to  height,  some 
standing,  some  sitting,  with  affectation  of  carelessness  here 
and  there,  but  with  regularity  and  order  dominating  the  whole. 
They  feel  at  once  that  without  this  the  photograph  would  be 
a  failure.  Yet  at  first  thought  the  photograph  would  seem 
to  be  only  a  transcript  of  Ufe,  and  the  charm  that  was  in  the 
scene  before  ought  in  some  way  to  be  transferable  to  the 
reproduction.  Not  so.  All  human  experience  justifies  this 
judgment  which  is  little  less  than  an  instinct  in  the  prompt- 
ness and  universality  of  its  adoption.  Why  this  need  of 
regularity  where  the  irregular  was  more  beautiful  before? 
The  answer  is  simple.  The  photograph  will  be  mounted 
upon  a  symmetrical  card.  It  will  have  outline,  and  we  cannot 
look  upon  it  and  ignore  that  outline.  A  photograph,  as  we 
say,  must  be  composed,  but  the  composition  must  not  be 
noticed  or  thought  of.  The  one  who  admires  the  figures  may 
have  no  knowledge  of  this  art.  The  photographer  himself 
may  have  no  theories  about  it,  may  not  even  know  the  word, 


Raphael  in  Rome  297 

but  if  he  takes  acceptable  photographs,  he  is  guided  con- 
stantly by  the  instinct  in  question. 

With  the  painter,  this  demand  is  even  more  pronounced. 
All  good  paintings  are  most  carefully  composed.  The 
earlier  paintings  are  very  simply  and  overtly  arranged ;  the 
later  ones  are  arranged  with  even  greater  care,  but  with  a 
distinct  effort  to  make  the  arrangement  unobtrusive,  to  make 
it  felt  rather  than  thought  about.  The  reason  is  fundamen- 
tally the  same.  The  painting,  no  matter  what  it  be,  will  ulti- 
mately occupy  a  symmetrical  space,  —  it  may  be  square  or 
oblong  or  any  other  possible  shape,  but  whatever  it  be,  it  is 
almost  certain  to  be  symmetrical.  If  it  be  square  or  oblong, 
the  exaction  of  symmetry  is  but  a  moderate  one.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  its  outline  be  something  more  studied  and  pre- 
sumably more  aesthetic  in  itself,  then  the  necessity  of  respect- 
ing that  outline  is  increased.  A  round  picture  must  be  much 
more  emphatically  composed  than  a  square  one;  a  picture 
in  a  Gothic  arch  most  exactingly  so.  Now  the  mediaeval 
artists  met  this  need  of  composition  in  a  very  naive  and  child- 
like fashion.  Having  no  perspective  in  their  pictures,  the 
figures  are  all  arranged  in  a  single  row  and  there  was  little 
hesitation  on  the  part  of  these  men  to  whom  the  idea  of 
naturalness  was  of  such  minor  concern,  in  arranging  them 
in  quite  unplausible  symmetry.  The  Madonna  was  in  the 
center  and  held  the  child  before  her,  sometimes  facing  exactly 
outward,  and  with  perfect  balance  of  right  and  left.  And 
if  on  one  side  stood  a  saint,  a  saint  must  stand  on  the  other, 
or  two  it  may  be,  a  greater  and  a  less,  and  in  each  case  right 
and  left  must  be  dupHcates  in  number  and  even  in  size  and 
attitude,  that  the  perfect  symmetry  which  their  highly  decora- 
tive frames  or  altar  niches  required,  might  be  attained.  That 
is  the  glory  of  the  great  mosaics,  at  the  same  time  that  it  is 
their  weakness,  —  their  glojy  as  decorations,  as  symmetrical 
masses  of  color  and  line,  illuminating  the  great  church,  whose 
character  they  so  unhesitatingly  accepted,  with  their  blaze 
of  splendor. 


298  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

But  at  the  dawn  of  the  Renaissance,  we  have  seen,  a  new 
respect  is  felt  for  life,  and  it  is  impossible  to  give  life  its  rights 
by  any  such  simple  scheme.  In  the  first  place,  living  beings 
are  not  wont  to  be  entirely  regular  in  their  groupings.  More- 
over, it  is  impossible  to  arrange  them  all  in  a  straight  line  and 
make  a  decorative  pattern  like  a  screen  or  grill.  That  is  not 
the  way  living  creatures  do,  and  that  Hfe  might  have  its  rights, 
the  more  ambitious  picture  took  the  place  of  the  flat  outline 
decoration.  Picture  means  depth,  perspective,  figures  near 
and  figures  far,  more  or  less  over-lapping  and  other  complica- 
tion. It  is  obvious  that  the  problem  of  composition  was 
greatly  complicated  thereby,  for  it  must  be  remembered,  the 
need  of  composition  did  not  in  the  least  disappear.  The 
earlier  painters  like  Giotto,  or  still  more,  some  of  his  feebler 
associates,  were  wont  still  to  arrange  their  figures  on  the  front 
of  a  shallow  stage,  and  even  to  have  them  look  round  at  the 
.audience  that  each  might  be  plainly  seen.  But  increasingly 
the  artists  carved  out  a  vast  depth  in  their  picture  and 
struggled  with  the  problem  of  regularity  and  design.  Simple 
bi-lateral  symmetry,  that  is,  the  duplication  of  left  and  right, 
of  course  has  to  go.  A  balance  more  subtle,  but  still  potent 
and  carefully  studied,  now  takes  its  place.  On  the  whole,  the 
tendency  is  toward  the  concealment  of  composition ;  freedom 
has  its  way  at  the  seeming  expense  of  regularity  and  design, 
a  certain  compromise  being  inevitable.  It  is  the  era  of  pic- 
ture, and  its  controlling  law  is  life.  Composition  is  still  there, 
but  obvious  symmetry  is  avoided. 

But  when  the  picture  was  used  to  decorate  an  apartment 
like  this,  whose  symmetry  was  impressive,  whose  bounding 
spaces  were  curves  of  beauty  and  of  meaning,  the  old  need  of 
symmetry  again  was  felt.  Some  felt  it  more,  some  less ;  none 
more  than  Raphael.  His  picture  must  be  a  decoration,  yet 
just  because  he  was  a  man  of  the  Renaissance,  it  must  also  be 
a  picture.  The  little  one  with  which  we  began,  Prudence, 
Force,  and  Moderation,  is  little  more  than  a  decoration, 


Raphael  in  Rome  299 

sacrificing  depth  and  complexity,  but  this  was  simpler.  On 
the  greater  walls  depth  and  space  relations  fore  and  aft  are 
indispensable.  How  then  shall  we  still  secure  the  regularity, 
the  sense  of  symmetry  that  is  indispensable  to  a  good  decora- 
tion? 

Two  things  are  essential.  We  are  looking  into  the  picture 
supposedly  from  such  a  point  that  it  stretches  out  not  only 
before  us,  but  somewhat  beneath  us.  As  an  architect 
would  say,  we  see  not  only  its  elevation,  but  its  ground 
plan.  Wherever  the  mind  grasps  a  situation,  the  decora- 
tive feeling  demands  that  it  shall  find  order  and  symmetry. 
If  therefore  we  look  down  upon  a  group  of  men  or  other 
objects,  we  look  for  a  symmetrical  arrangement  among  them. 
It  is  not  that  we  want  to  see  their  heads  arranged  in  a  sym- 
metrical manner,  the  middle  one,  the  highest,  and  so  on.  It 
is  not  merely  a  perpendicular  symmetry  that  we  are  interested 
in,  but  where  we  can  plainly  see  or  feel  a  ground  plan,  we 
want  to  find  symmetry  there.  At  the  same  time,  as  we  stand 
off  and  look  at  the  picture  as  a  whole,  seeing  the  upper  part 
above  us  and  the  lower  part  below  us,  we  cannot  wholly 
ignore  the  fact  of  its  perpendicular  arrangement.  The 
grouping  of  the  whole  upon  the  wall  must  again  have  its 
symmetry  of  the  old-time  mediaeval  art.  Freedom  there 
may  be,  fore  and  aft,  but  in  the  upright  plan  of  vision  these 
things  must  still  make  something  of  a  pattern.  We  must 
therefore  have  two  kinds  of  composition.  Perhaps  we  shall 
understand  them  best  if  we  say  "perpendicular  composition" 
and  ''horizontal  composition."  Our  people  or  other  objects 
must  be  so  arranged  that  as  they  loom  up  before  us  they  will 
be  symmetrical  or  orderly  as  an  upright  mass  or  design,  and 
yet  must  likewise  be  so  arranged  that  as  we  conceive  of  them 
scattered  over  a  horizontal  surface  they  will  there  too  be 
symmetrical  and  orderly.  Perhaps  we  may  best  get  the  idea 
from  a  great  cathedral.  We  stand  at  the  central  entrance  and 
look  down  the  pillared  aisle.    The  arches  in  diminishing  lines 


300  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

stretch  far  down  toward  the  altar  which  catches  our  eye  and 
holds  it  as  the  center  of  vision.  Take  what  we  see  as  an 
upright  mass  before  us,  and  it  is  perfectly  symmetrical. 
There  are  the  tall  pillars  on  either  side,  crowned  with  the 
great  arch  above,  and  so  on  down.  But,  in  turn,  we  are  also 
perfectly  conscious  that  the  pillars  are  arranged  symmetrically 
upon  the  floor  that  spreads  out  before  us  in  a  great  horizontal. 
Here,  too,  there  is  symmetry  which  we  feel  perhaps  quite  as 
much  as  we  do  the  upright  symmetry  of  the  pillars  and  arches 
that  loom  before  us.  It  would  be  a  sorry  cathedral  that 
should  have  a  confused  ground  plan,  even  though  the  masses 
arranged  themselves  in  the  upright  plane  of  vision  in  a  sym- 
metrical manner.  We  should  feel  the  ground  plan  irregular 
just  the  same. 

Here  then  Hes  Raphael's  crowning  triumph.  He  has,  to  be 
sui'e,  given  us  certain  things  that  lend  themselves  but  feebly 
to  a  scheme  of  decorative  arrangement,  the  distant  landscape 
on  either  side,  even  the  group  of  people  in  the  foreground,  but 
while  there  is  some  compromise  with  the  inevitable  freedom  of 
nature,  the  compromise  is  not  a  contradiction.  These  people, 
if  not  absolutely  regularly  arranged,  are  suflftciently  so,  as 
nearly  so  as  they  could  be  without  seeming  to  lose  their  freedom 
and  their  character.  The  landscape,  too,  is  as  regular  as  it 
is  in  the  nature  of  landscapes  to  be.  But  now  as  we  look 
upward  into  the  heavens,  Raphael  has  freely  broken  with  all 
natural  tradition,  and  the  clouds  build  themselves  into  curving 
platforms  and  shadowy  domes,  assuming  cherubic  forms  with- 
out change  of  their  shadowy  substance. 

The  great  picture  upon  the  other  side,  the  so-called  School 
of  Athens  (C  167),  is  another  example  of  the  same  sort.  Here 
we  have  an  architectural  background,  giving  us  a  symmetry 
very  much  of  the  cathedral  ^ort  before  mentioned,  and  again 
groups  of  figures  that  without  any  mathematical  precision 
group  themselves  in  that  freer  symmetry  that  life  as  we  know 
it  permits.    This  wall  may  be  taken  as  the  ideal  example  of 


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302  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

the  pictorial  decoration  of  the  Renaissance.  Unlike  the  flat 
decorations  of  the  Middle  Ages,  this  decoration  does  not  leave 
the  wall  in  thought  in  its  true  place,  but  compels  us  to  think 
it  quite  away.  In  this  respect  it  is  pictorial.  But  unlike 
most  pictures,  it  does  not  give  us  a  vague  and  uncertain 
depth  beyond,  but  a  definite  and  symmetrical  one.  In  this 
sense  it  is  akin  to  architecture  and  so  to  decoration.  Into 
this  space  is  projected  the  principle  of  symmetry  in  two  dimen- 
sions, a  complicated  application  of  a  familiar  decorative  prin- 
ciple. This  composition  in  two  dimensions  bears  the  same 
relation  to  composition  in  one  dimension  that  solid  geometry 
bears  to  plane  geometry.  We  have  only  to  add  that  as  the 
principle  of  symmetry  may  be  applied  to  two  dimensions 
instead  of  one,  so  the  more  subtle  principle  of  balance  may  be 
applied  to  relations  of  two  dimensions.  By  the  time  we  get 
this  far,  we  get  beyond  all  ordinary  power  of  analysis.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  the  painter  himself  ever  fully  calculates 
the  result  of  so  complex  a  problem.  He  rather  feels  his  way, 
guided,  none  the  less,  by  an  instinctive  feeling  for  the  relations 
mentioned. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  this  complex  system  of 
symmetry  is  really  less  decorative  than  the  simpler  composi- 
tion in  a  single  plane  in  use  in  the  Mediaeval  art.  It  does  not 
emphasize  and  beautify  the  building,  or  wall,  as  the  architect 
gives  it  to  us,  but  rather  obliterates  it  from  our  consciousness, 
substituting  for  it  a  space  of  different  shape  and  character. 
It  does  this  because  it  needs  the  room  for  its  figures  and  its 
incidents  to  arrange  themselves  in  a  natural  way.  As  a 
sort  of  concession  to  the  architect  whose  work  it  has  enfeebled 
or  destroyed,  it  arranges  its  own  creations  in  a  symmetrical 
manner,  though  somewhat  against  their  nature.  The  whole 
system,  therefore,  is  one  of  intrinsic  compromise.  The 
mosaicist  made  no  concession  to  life.  Decoration  was 
supreme.  The  extreme  modern  realist  makes  no  concession 
to  decoration,  rejects  all  symmetries,  and  gives  full  sway  to 


Raphael  in  Rome  303 

life.  Raphael  is  the  best  example  of  a  middle  ground,  each 
interest  making  the  necessary  concessions,  but  so  cleverly 
calculated  that  neither  architecture  nor  Ufe  seems  aggrieved. 

All  the  great  painters  or  frescoers  of  the  Renaissance  strug- 
gled with  this  same  problem.  There  was  never  a  fresco- 
painter  who  did  not  realize  that  he  must  fill  his  space  and  that 
there  were  good  ways  and  bad  ways  of  filling  it.  Yet,  on  the 
whole,  throughout  the  entire  Renaissance,  they  cared  more 
for  the  character  they  were  portraying,  for  story  telling,  than 
they  did  for  the  symmetry  of  the  building  they  were  osten- 
sibly trying  to  express  and  emphasize.  On  the  whole,  the 
Renaissance  is  pictorial  rather  than  decorative,  the  Mediaeval 
art  decorative  rather  than  pictorial.  Only  in  the  work  of 
Raphael  in  a  very  high  sense  can  we  say  that  the  more  com- 
plex and  ambitious  scheme  of  pictorial  decoration  was  fully 
achieved.  There  are  and  always  will  be  those  who  doubt  the 
wisdom  of  such  an  attempt.  Certainly  the  small  percentage 
of  success  gives  some  justification  to  the  doubt.  The  picture 
as  such  is  designed  to  make  the  necessary  concessions  and 
to  leave  the  wall  one  hundred  per  cent  wall.  It  weakens  and 
enfeebles  what  it  is  set  to  beautify  by  somewhat  immodestly 
oHering  its  own  beauty  by  way  of  compensation.  This  is 
the  history  of  the  Renaissance  and  of  much  of  our  modern  art 
as  well.  The  experiment,  whether  wise  or  not,  was  one  of 
colossal  difficulty,  and  in  Raphael's  work  at  last  it  was 
markedly  successful. 

It  is  with  less  enthusiasm  that  we  turn  to  another  phase 
of  Raphael's  work.  What  has  Raphael  told  us  in  these 
pictures  ?  What  is  his  message  ?  There  are  many  who  would 
resent  such  a  question.  It  is  but  fair  not  to  press  it  too  far. 
Yet  it  is  certain  that  Raphael  did  not  deprecate  comparison 
between  Michelangelo  and  himself  on  this  ground  as  well  as 
other.  We  have  noticed  the  arbitrary  character  of  the  figures 
denominated  Prudence,  Force,  and  Moderation.  There  is 
nothing   about   them   to   suggest   these   names.     They  are 


304  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

merely  charming  figures,  charmingly  arranged,  decoration 
pure  and  simple.  As  we  turn  now  to  the  Discussion  of  the 
Sacrament,  the  theme  becomes  weightier,  the  message  much 
more  imperatively  demanded.  We  have  the  Christ  and  God 
the  Father.  But  compare  it  with  Michelangelo's  Creator, 
who  hurls  the  sun  from  his  finger  or  touches  the  new-formed 
man  to  life.  Compare  it  well.  Comment  is  unnecessary ; 
benignant  old  age,  but  not  divinity.  Still  less  the  Christ; 
almost  feminine  in  delicacy  but  inconceivable  as  the  symbol 
of  divine  intervention  in  humanity's  behalf.  Or  turn  to  the 
School  of  Athens,  splendid  group  as  it  is,  and  recall  names 
that  the  world  delights  to  honor,  Socrates  and  Plato,  Archi- 
medes and  Zeno.  The  list  is  the  most  glorious  that  any  time 
or  place  can  offer.  But  is  it  Philosophy  that  is  represented 
here?  There  are  some  worthy  figures  bearing  philosophers' 
names ;  there  is  symbolism  in  figure  and  grouping.  There  is 
Mathematics,  we  are  told ;  certainly  that  was  Raphael's 
intention.  We  have  actually  a  likeness  of  Raphael's  friend, 
Bramante,  writing  upon  a  slate  around  which  are  gathered  a 
group  of  lovely  boys.  It  is  conceivable  that  all  of  these 
girUsh  figures  might  master  something  of  that  complex  art, 
but  if  so,  the  contradiction  between  face  and  achievement 
would  enhance  the  wonder  of  the  result.  It  is  impossible 
to  conceive  figures  less  suggestive  of  an  abstruse  science  like 
mathematics.  Nor  is  the  painting  of  Parnassus  (C  164)  upon 
the  opposite  wall,  with  its  glorious  company  of  poets,  from 
Homer  down  to  Dante  and  his  famous  peers,  more  adequate. 
There  is  an  impressive  loveliness  about  the  gentle  god  and 
the  Muses  grouped  about  him.  The  Muse  who  sits  near  by, 
white-robed  and  exquisite,  is  a  creation  worthy  of  Raphael's 
refinement  and  taste,  but  is  only  a  feeble  reminiscence  of  the 
mighty  strain  of  poetry  that  has  come  down  to  us  through  all 
the  ages.  A  figure  for  Watteau  to  paint  upon  a  fan  for  a 
Marie  Antoinette,  this  exquisite  creature,  but  not  one  to 
symbolize  the  mighty  music  of  Dante,  the  wrath  of  Achilles^ 


3o6  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

or  the  Pean  to  which  the  hoplites  charged  at  Marathon. 
There  is  sterner  stuff  in  the  world's  music,  in  the  world's  art, 
than  anything  these  creatures  can  represent.  It  is  art  in 
lighter  vein  that  these  Muses  suggest.  It  is,  let  us  concede 
without  harshness,  art  in  lighter  vein  of  which  our  artist  is 
the  exponent. 

The  following  Stanze  show  Raphael's  rapid  degeneration, 
yet  the  degeneration  is  not  wholly  his.  His  own  handiwork 
is  increasingly  difficult  to  trace,  the  work  of  helpers  increas- 
ingly evident.  A  fresco  consists  essentially  of  three  processes. 
The  first  is  a  sketch.  The  space  to  be  filled  is  indicated  in 
smaller  scale  in  exact  proportions  and  the  sketch  drawn  in  to 
enable  the  artist  to  decide  what  is  best  adapted  to  the  space 
in  question.  This  sketch,  so  to  speak,  merely  determines  the 
theme,  the  number  and  character  of  the  figures,  the  com- 
position in  its  broader  outlines.  It  is  purely  a  preparatory 
study  on  the  artist's  part.  The  sketch  once  complete,  the 
cartoon  comes  next.  This  is  the  picture  complete  as  regards 
outline  and  detail.  It  is  made  full  size  on  large  pieces  of 
paper,  and  then  the  outline  is  punctured  much  as  for  an 
embroidery  pattern  which  is  to  be  stamped  with  blueing  upon 
the  fabric.  For  when  it  comes  to  the  painting  itself,  it  must 
be  executed  with  lightning  rapidity.  There  is  no  possibility 
of  experiment.  You  cannot  draw  lines  and  then  change  and 
erase.  The  line  must  be  perfectly  determined  beforehand. 
This  is  done  by  means  of  the  cartoon.  The  cartoon  once 
ready,  a  small  portion  of  the  space,  such  portion  as  the  artist 
thinks  it  possible  to  cover  in  a  limited  time,  is  covered  with 
fresh  plaster,  and  the  cartoon,  or  the  appropriate  section  of 
it  is  fastened  up.  With  a  bag  of  blueing  or  other  pigment,  it 
is  pounced  on,  that  is,  the  bag  is  passed  over  the  punctured  out- 
lines and  dots  of  color  are  left  upon  the  wet  plaster  which 
guides  the  painter  in  his  work.  The  cartoon  now  removed, 
the  painting  is  done  with  the  utmost  possible  despatch. 
Essentially  all  the  color  must  be  laid  on  while  the  plaster 


Raphael  in  Rome  307 

is  still  moist.  It  thus  penetrates  the  plaster,  and  as  the 
latter  hardens  by  crystallizing,  the  color  is  incorporated  in  the 
substance  of  the  plaster  itself.  Only  slight  finishing  touches 
may  be  put  on  after  the  plaster  is  dry.  The  next  day  another 
section  is  covered  in  the  same  way,  and  so  on  until  the  work 
is  finished. 

There  is  every  temptation  in  a  work  of  this  kind  to  the 
employment  of  helpers,  a  temptation  to  which  even  Michel- 
angelo was  disposed  to  yield,  but  which  he  ultimately  resisted. 
The  character  of  Raphael's  art  and  of  Raphael  himself  insures 
a  different  result.  With  different  purpose,  infinite  suavity, 
the  affection  of  all  who  worked  with  him,  and  it  must  be 
confessed,  a  far  simpler  task  before  him,  it  was  easy  for  a 
helper  to  cooperate  successfully  in  the  hurried  process  of 
transfer  to  the  wet  plaster.  Not  that  such  help  would  be 
used  indiscriminately.  The  faces,  the  more  important  figures 
or  parts,  would  naturally  be  the  work  of  the  artist  himself, 
but  indifferent  detail,  of  which  the  great  pictures  of  the 
Renaissance  contained  abundance,  especially  architectural, 
all  this  could  be  put  in  by  a  trained  helper  with  reasonable 
satisfaction. 

As  we  study  Raphael's  farther  work,  the  use  of  the  helper 
becomes  apparent.  Thus  the  Delivery  of  Peter  from  Prison, 
one  of  the  loveliest  of  Raphael's  conceptions,  will  strike  any- 
one familiar  with  Raphael's  painting  as  not  being  quite  the 
usual  color.  In  conception  and  drawing  it  is  perfect;  it  is 
very  like  Raphael ;  but  the  color  is  redder,  perhaps  we  may 
say,  a  little  more  rank,  less  subtle,  than  the  artist  is  wont  to 
use.  This  conclusion  is  not  difficult,  and  is  indeed  justified 
by  indubitable  evidence,  that  Raphael  did  not  put  this 
painting  upon  the  wall  at  all.  He  prepared  the  sketch,  and 
then  the  cartoon,  but  having  long  depended  upon  helpers 
for  parts,  he  came  at  last  to  turn  over  to  them  the  last  pro- 
cesses complete.  We  can  readily  understand  the  inevitable 
deterioration  which  would  thus  result.     The  helper,  working 


3o8  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

no  longer  beside  the  master,  only  under  his  occasional  super- 
vision, was  freer  to  choose  his  color,  freer  indeed  in  all  respects 
than  before.  One  so  exacting  as  Michelangelo  would  never 
have  tolerated  such  cooperation,  would  have  repudiated  it 
even  after  it  began,- but  Raphael  was  of  a  different  mould. 

This  same  double  character  is  visible  in  the  Fire  in  the 
Borgo  (M  2),  the  Vision  of  Attila,  the  Expulsion  of  Helio- 
dorus,  and  the  later  Stanze  generally.  They  do  not  compare 
with  the  Disputa  in  refinement  and  delicacy. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet.  Raphael  was  unfortunately  too 
popular,  too  busy.  He  was  sought  by  art  lovers  everywhere. 
He  was  sought  for  other  things  than  art.  He  was  popular 
socially.  He  was  a  scholar,  and  was  deeply  interested  in 
preserving  the  ancient  monuments  of  Rome,  then  far  more 
numerous  than  now.  He  soon  became  the  official  archaeolo- 
gist of  Rome.  He  was  enmeshed  to  some  degree  in  the 
interests  of  the  church.  There  was  a  rumor  of  a  possible 
Cardinal's  hat,  had  not  death  come  too  promptly.  All  in  all, 
the  commissions  offered,  and  perhaps  imprudently  accepted, 
were  far  beyond  the  limits  of  his  individual  resources.  Hence 
this  using  of  helpers  for  the  last  stage  altogether,  and  then, 
unfortunately,  the  using  of  helpers  for  the  intermediate  stage 
as  well.  The  Stanze  themselves  perhaps  give  us  no  example 
of  this  further  debauching  of  Raphael's  art.  We  must  go  to 
the  Villa  Farnesina,  which  we  may  without  too  much  regret 
oAiit  if  time  be  pressing,  to  find  this  further  dilution  of 
Raphael's  art.  Here  in  the  spandrils  of  the  arches  above, 
Raphael  has  arranged  with  his  usual  cleverness  figures  admi- 
rably adapted  for  the  purpose,  arranging  them  himself,  but 
the  work  is  not  his  own.  We  have  a  sketch,  declared  by 
experts  to  be  by  Raphael's  hand,  but  comparing  it  with  the 
fresco  itself  we  find  it  is  but  remotely  similar.  He  made  the 
sketch,  and  then,  as  the  fresco  plainly  bears  witness,  left  to 
someone  else  the  entire  responsibility  of  its  further  execution. 
That  someone  is  now  not  doubtful,  one  Giulio  by  name,  the 


3IO  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


only  artist  that  Rome  ever  produced,  and  hence  called  Giulio 
Romano,  Julius  the  Roman.  To  Giulio  was  left  the  work  of 
executing  both  cartoon  and  fresco.  He  could  have  chosen  no 
more  unworthy  hand  ;  grossly  facile,  but  indelicate  and  unin- 
ventive,  Julius  represented  the  artisanship  of  painting  in  its 
least  inspired  form.  It  was  the  fault,  no  doubt,  of  over- 
zealous  patrons  that  Raphael's  art  was  thus  debauched,  but 
we  cannot  wholly  exonerate  the  artist  who  willingly  lent  his 
name  to  work  for  which  he  furnished  but  the  preliminary 
sketch  and  for  which  he  drew  the  pay.  There  has  been  much 
mourning  over  the  untimely  death  of  Raphael,  but  had  he 
died  five  years  sooner  his  name  would  have  been  held  in 
higher  honor. 

There  is  little  to  be  said  in  praise  of  the  later  walls  of  the 
Stanze.  The  Miracle  of  Bolsena  is  by  far  the  best,  but  aside 
from  an  excellent  portrait  of  Julius  II  and  certain  clear 
indications  that  Raphael  was  now  attempting  to  assimilate 
the  Venetian  manner,  it  has  no  great  interest.  The  Expul- 
sion of  Heliodorus  and  the  Story  of  Attila  are  mediocre  works, 
Raphael's  part  in  which  we  should  be  glad  to  minimize. 
As  we  pass  round  to  the  great  Hall  of  Constantine,  the  last 
vestige  of  Raphael's  influence  disappears.  Bigger  walls  and 
more  numerous  figures,  but  now  in  vulgar  and  meaningless 
confusion,  are  the  sorry  outcome  of  this  work  begun  so  aus- 
piciously, a  work  scoring  such  striking  triumphs  and  ending 
in  such  humiliating  demoralization. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  the  story  of  Raphael  in  Rome,  with- 
any  justice,  without  keeping  constantly  in  mind  the  great 
background  of  his  thought,  indeed  of  the  thought  of  all  men  at 
this  time,  —  the  mighty  Michelangelo.  Who  could  have  lived 
in  Rome  in  the  days  when  the  Prophets  and  the  Sibyls  burst 
upon  men's  vision,  and  be  uninfluenced  by  this  man,  supreme 
in  his  art  ?  It  was  the  very  greatness  of  Michelangelo  that  he 
dwelt  among  the  conflicting  influences  of  his  time,  himself 
little  modified.    He  had  a  minimum  of  ability  to  assimilate 


Raphael  in  Rome  311 

the  thoughts,  the  suggestions,  the  spirit  of  other  men.  That 
which  would  have  been  to  another  man  a  misfortune  was  for 
him  a  salvation.  Raphael  was  his  exact  opposite.  There  is 
scarce  a  picture  in  the  long  series  that  he  has  given  us  in  which 
we  cannot  trace  the  influence  of  some  contemporary  artist. 
His  genius  was  distinctly  a  genius  for  assimilation.  But 
unlike  the  usual  imitator  and  assimilator,  when  he  repeated 
the  work  of  another  man  he  ordinarily  improved  upon  it. 
Nothing  at  first  sight  would  seem  more  original  than  the 
Strange  combination  of  dome  and  platform  clouds,  distant 
landscape  and  cathedral  floor,  in  the  Disputa.  It  Is  Ufttiqtae 
whatever  may  be  said  about  it,  is  our  first  reflection.  But  we 
are  astonished  to  find  that  even  this  is  not  Raphael's  inven- 
tion, but  taken  from  a  similar  work  by  Fra  Bartolommeo,  of 
all  his  contemporaries  the  one  whom  Raphael  seems  to  have 
loved.  Other  works  show  his  influence,  still  others  that  of 
Leonardo,  as  we  have  seen,  many,  of  course,  the  influence  of 
Perugino.  In  addition  to  the  Miracle  of  Bolsena,  a  number 
of  his  later  works  are  deeply  stamped  with  the  character  of 
the  Venetian  art  which  only  in  this  later  day  came  to  the 
fuller  consciousness  of  Rome. 

But  among  all  those  whom  Raphael  thus  felt  impelled  to 
assimilate  and  to  vie  with,  none  exercised  an  influence  so 
great  and  none  an  influence  so  baneful  as  Michelangelo.  We 
have  noticed  Raphael's  attempt  to  rival  the  Titanic  nude  of 
the  great  artist  in  his  Fire  in  the  Borgo,  where  the  Titanic 
nude  became  preposterous  for  lack  of  reason  or  spiritual 
content.  This,  however,  gave  rise  to  other  attempts  at 
rivalry  if  not  of  deliberate  imitation.  The  little  picture  in  the 
Pitti  Gallery  at  Florence,  known  as  the  Vision  of  Ezekiel,  is  a 
startling  reminder  of  Michelangelo's  Creation  of  the  Sun  and 
the  Moon  ;  a  startling  reminder,  yet  a  pitiful  contrast.  There 
is  the  same  erect  figure,  the  same  streaming  hair  and  flowing 
beard,  the  same  knit  eyebrows.  But  the  arms  are  stretched 
out,  not  with  the  energy  of  creative  omnipotence,  but  in  the 


312  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

helplessness  of  old  age.  They  are  supported  on  either  side 
by  charming  cherubic  creatures  who,  shorn  of  all  the  dignity 
that  characterizes  Michelangelo's  accompanying  figures, 
play  hide  and  go  seek  round  the  Creator,  whose  senile  impo- 
tence they  are  seemingly  set  to  supplement.  At  first  glance, 
Michelangelo's;  at  second  glance  a  sorry  misapplication  of 
Raphael's  own  cherubic  charm. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet.  One  can  imagine  with  what 
intensity  of  interest  the  youthful  painter  followed  the  great 
Julius  and  his  coterie  of  friends  into  the  Sistine  Chapel  that 
day  when  Michelangelo's  story  of  Creation  was  first  uncovered 
before  their  astonished  gaze,  and  again  that  later  day,  when 
the  Sibyls  and  Prophets  were  at  last  revealed  to  view.  These 
Sibyls  were  indeed  the  triumph  of  the  age,  so  Raphael  must 
have  thought.  The  desire  to  emulate  this  great  work  deeply 
possessed  Raphael,  and  he  availed  himself  of  the  first  oppor- 
tunity to  paint  the  Sibyls.  In  the  little  church  of  Santa 
Maria  della  Pace  near  by,  the  opportunity  was  found.  The 
fresco  occupies  an  irregular  space,  one  least  suited  to  pictorial 
composition,  but  one  where  Raphael's  facility  in  that  respect 
was  sure  to  score  an  easy  triumph  ;  indeed,  his  art  has  known 
no  better.  There  is  the  inevitable  Raphael  quality  in  tliese 
cupid-like  figures,  the  one  holding  the  torch  above,  the  one 
whose  roguish  face  rests  upon  his  hand ;  these  are  perfectly 
charming.  Not  without  the  usual  charm,  too,  are  the  Sibyls 
themselves,  the  younger  of  them  at  least,  where  Raphael's 
feeling  for  serene  beauty  found  its  better  opportunity.  Nor 
can  anything  surpass  the  ease  and  unexpected  plausibility 
with  which  they  group  themselves  in  this  untoward  space. 
Charm,  grace,  beauty,  all  this,  yes ;  but  Sibyls,  never.  Look 
at  this  oval-faced  blonde  who  occupies  the  space  at  the  left, 
a  charming  ball-room  figure,  but  is  there  a  hint  here  of  the 
responsibility  of  prophecy,  the  pathos  of  the  message,  the 
inexorable  will  of  the  Most  High  ?  Or  look  at  the  Cumaean 
Sibyl,  —  alas  for  such  a  contrast,  —  who  occupies  the  space 


Raphael  in  Rome  313 

at  the  right.  Sharp-featured,  glittering  eyed,  sunken  cheeked, 
she  is  the  quintessence  of  insignificance  and  of  gossiping  gar- 
ruUty.  Nothing  could  better  disclose  Raphael's  total  inca- 
pacity to  deal  with  those  mighty  thoughts  that  were  Michel- 
angelo's daily  companions. 

Unsatisfactory  as  are  many  of  the  works  of  this  later  period, 
it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Raphael's  genius  is  also  manifest, 
and  that  it  gave  in  this  period  some  of  the  most  valuable  of  his 
creations.  Indeed,  the  only  works  in  which  we  detect  a  true 
creative  originality  worthy  of  comparison  with  that  of  Leo- 
nardo and  Michelangelo,  date  from  this  time.  Such  are  the 
Madonna  of  the  Chair,  with  its  happiest  of  compositions 
motived  by  the  most  beautiful  of  sentiments,  the  Saint 
Cecilia  of  Bologna,  in  which  the  commonplace  conception  of  a 
woman  who  displays  her  musical  skill  to  a  wondering  audience, 
is  reversed,  and  the  saint  alone  among  the  assembled  com- 
pany, listens  to  the  music  of  the  heavenly  choir,  or  finally, 
the  incomparable  Sistine,  unique  among  Madonnas  both  in 
the  manner  and  the  spiritual  significance  of  the  theme. 
Pure  and  limpid  as  was  the  inspiration  of  Raphael  in  the 
earlier  Leonardo  days,  his  achievements  were  marked  by  no 
such  creative  imagination  as  characterizes  these  works. 
That  the  passion  for  assimilation  which  worked  out  so  happily 
in  contact  with  the  gentle  Perugino  and  the  inspired  Leonardo, 
should  have  wrought  less  happily  in  contact  with  Michel- 
angelo, whose  genius  was  most  at  home  beyond  the  limits  of 
normal  art  and  in  a  field  where  any  but  he  would  be  a  tres- 
passer, should  not  blind  us  to  the  fact  that  this  power  of 
assimilation  was  unique,  amounting  in  the  case  of  Raphael  to 
positive  genius.  If  it  deluded  Raphael  into  painting  the  Fire 
in  the  Borgo,  it  inspired  him  to  paint  the  Madonna  of  the 
Goldfinch.  The  assimilative  genius  of  Raphael,  after  all, 
has  nothing  worse  to  its  count  than  the  creative  genius  of 
Michelangelo.  The  one  gift  was  as  exceptional,  and  like  all 
exceptional  gifts,  as  dangerous  as  the  other.     In  his  effort 


314  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

to  assimilate  and  fuse  into  a  perfect  whole  all  the  varying 
individual  styles  of  this  creative  age,  Raphael  attempted  the 
impossible,  but  not  more  than  did  Leonardo  in  the  field  of 
science.  The  striving  for  universality  was  the  weakness,  as 
it  was  also  the  greatness  of  the  age.  Such  an  age  produces 
great  personalities  and  little  in  the  way  of  finished  personal 
achievement.  Raphael  attempted  the  impossible  in  his  own 
particular  way,  and  failed  in  his  own  particular  way,  as  the 
others  did  in  theirs ;  but  like  the  others,  he  made  himself  a 
part  of  that  great  spiritual  achievement  which  means  so  much 
more  to  us  than  all  the  Stanze  and  the  Madonnas,  more  even 
than  the  Prophets  and  the  Sibyls,  the  far  reach  of  the  soul  in 
the  Renaissance. 

If  we  turn  from  Raphael's  temperament  to  the  circum- 
stances which  so  largely  conditioned  his  action,  our  feeling 
is  at  first  one  of  extreme  regret.  It  is  difficult  to  reconcile 
ourselves  to  the  hot-house  pressure  put  upon  Raphael's 
development  by  the  cabals  and  feuds  of  the  time,  to  the 
depraved  taste  which  demanded  strident  and  sensational 
effects  from  this  painter  of  the  exquisite,  to  the  superficiality 
which  accepted  the  coarse  work  of  Giulio  Romano  if  signed 
by  the  more  popular  name;  above  all  we  regret  that  the 
collaboration  thus  unwisely  forced  upon  Raphael  should  have 
been  of  the  vulgar  type  which  the  pervading  atmosphere  of 
Roman  life  could  breed,  and  that  this  association  should 
ultimately  have  coarsened  the  fiber  of  the  painter  himself. 
But  again,  we  are  dealing  with  a  fact  nowise  exceptional. 
Michelangelo  was  hardly  more  favored  in  Rome.  Fortunately, 
his  one  great  work  was  rushed  headlong  through  to  com- 
pletion, before  his  inspiration,  born  of  the  purer  air  of  Florence? 
was  sullied  or  spent.  Fortuna.tely,  again,  he  was  not  popular, 
and  the  long  half  century  following  the  completion  of  the 
Sistine  Ceiling  brought  him  few  opportunities  for  the  inevi- 
table descent  to  Avernus.  But  the  few  works  which  record 
to  us  the  progress  of  his  thought  and  of  his  ideals  are  painful 


Raphael  in  Rome  31^ 


reminders  that  even  his  taciturn  and  isolated  spirit  was  not 
exempt  from  the  influence  of  this  debauching  environment. 
Unquestionably  art  flowed  far  more  limpid  and  pure  at  its 
fountain  head  in  Florence  or  in  gentle  Umbria,  than  in  the 
turbid  stream  of  cosmopoUtan  Rome. 

Yes,  but  is  it  in  some  favored  Florence  or  Umbria  that  art 
accomplishes  its  mission?  Life  is  more  undefiled  in  the 
monastery  than  in  the  market  place,  but  should  it  therefore 
remain  in  the  monastery?  It  is  folly  to  seek  for  art  or  for 
righteousness  conditions  of  development  which  rob  it  of  its 
value  and  its  use.  The  ripened  art  of  Florence  lost  nothing 
by  being  plucked  for  the  use  of  a  sodden  world.  Unplucked, 
it  would  have  rotted  upon  the  parent  stem.  Rome  offered 
to  art  no  subtle  inspiration  or  discriminating  guidance; 
she  ofTered  rather  a  world  to  be  refined  and  saved.  Chaotic 
in  her  impulses,  limitless  in  her  resources,  and  tyrannical  in 
her  power,  Rome  epitomized  the  humanity  to  which  art  must 
always  make  its  appeal.  That  in  this  Babel  of  conflicting 
impulses  and  undefined  ideals,  the  message  of  art  was  often 
confused  or  heard  awry  is  not  strange.  It  is,  after  all,  this 
same  Babel  which  must  be  won  from  confusion  to  order  by 
unconscious  adjustment  to  the  rhythmic  accents  of  art. 
Not  once,  but  a  thousand  times,  the  ideals  of  art  shall  be 
defiled  and  perish  by- this  same  contaminating  contact,  but 
not  a  thousand  times,  no,  nor  once,  shall  they  perish  in  vain. 

It  is  a  pleasant  task  to  turn  from  the  demoralization  which 
Raphael  suffered,  to  the  elevating  influence  which  he  exer- 
cised upon  this  new  world  art  of  the  Roman  Renaissance. 
We  have  seen  his  contribution  to  such  difficult  problems  as 
pictorial  decoration,  contributions  not  merely  technical,  by 
any  means,  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  expect  from  the  painter 
of  the  Madonna  of  the  Goldfinch  or  the  Sistine,  something 
more  definitely  expressive  of  the  spiritual  serenity  which  it 
was  his  to  interpret.  We  do  not  find  it  in  his  ill-advised 
adventures  into  Michelangelo's  field ;  we  look  for  it  often  in 


3i6  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

vain  under  the  obscuring  veil  of  Giulio  Romano's  handicraft. 
Let  us  not  look  so  narrowly  to  details  of  figure  or  face.  Rather 
let  us  look  back  in  long  perspective  at  the  great  walls  of  the 
Segnatura,  at  the  Deliverance  of  Peter,  yes,  even  at  the 
Sibyls  and  at  many  another  which,  taken  by  itself,  seems  but 
the  travesty  of  an  incongruous  theme.  Let  us  forget  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  the  theme  and  note  only  the  spirit  which, 
appropriately  or  not,  is  common  to  them  all.  It  is  the  same 
spirit  that  we  knew  and  loved  in  the  earlier  day,  a  spirit 
which,  hitherto  expressed  in  the  face  of  the  Madonna,  was 
now  called  upon  to  harmonize  the  vast  compositions  which 
were  the  product  of  the  age.  Into  the  turmoil  of  Roman 
life  Raphael  brings  a  spirit  of  imperturbable  serenity  and 
calm.  The  philosophers  of  Athens,  the  worshipers  of  the 
host,  the  Muses  upon  Parnassus,  the  liberated  Peter,  all 
have  the  serenity  of  God's  own  angels  and  bear  with  them 
the  charmed  spirit  of  peace.  If  this  spirit  is  strangely  dis- 
sonant in  a  Vision  of  Ezekiel  or  a  Sibyl  burdened  with  the 
message  of  God's  displeasure,  the  dissonance  is  not  Raphael's. 
It  is  but  the  discord  which  the  surrounding  din  makes  against 
the  music  of  his  art.  That  his  message  was  heard  and  wel- 
comed even  by  those  least  in  harmony  with  it,  there  is 
abundant  proof.  That  he  was  largely  sacrificed  to  the  con- 
ditions of  Roman  patronage  and  life,  is  indubitable,  but  the 
sacrifice  was  neither  gratuitous  nor  vain.  It  was  but  a  part 
of  that  universal  sacrifice  which  is  incidental  to  utilization. 
''Except  a  grain  of  wheat  fall  into  the  earth  and  die,  it 
abideth  alone,  but  if  it  die,  it  beareth  much  fruit." 


CHAPTER  XV 

ART  IN  THE  SCHOOL  OF  LORENZO  AND  SAVONAROLA 

Again  our  quest  takes  us  to  Florence,  the  goal  of  all 
inquiry  in  these  later  days  of  art.  For  long  the  drama  was 
enacted  wholly  within  her  walls,  and  as  later,  the  scene  widens 
and  we  make  our  long  excursions  with  Leonardo  and  Raphael 
to  Milan,  to  Rome,  to  France,  we  are  each  time  compelled  to 
return  to  the  Uttle  city  to  find  the  source  of  the  new  impulse 
which  energizes  the  new  and  ever  greater  act.  We  now  re- 
turn for  the  greatest  and  the  last. 

The  reverent  pilgrim  to  the  shrine  of  art  threads  his  thought- 
ful way  from  the  busy  center  of  art  out  along  the  Via  Ghibel- 
lina  to  the  Casa  Buonarroti,  thinking  there  to  find  the  closest 
associations  with  the  life  of  Michelangelo.  He  is  prone,  even, 
to  speak  of  the  place  as  the  "Michelangelo  House,"  misled  by 
the  family  nam.e.  He  is  mistaken.  The  great  sculptor  never 
made  this  his  home,  and  those  to  whom  it  owes  its  name  were 
but  unworthy  relatives  who"  burdened  his  generosity.  His 
parental  home  and  the  place  of  his  later  occasional  residence 
we  seek  in  vain.  Yet,  strangely  enough,  we  scarcely  associate 
him  in  our  thought  with  the  only  place  where  residence  was  of 
special  significance  to  him,  a  place  of  perfectly  accredited  so- 
journ amid  personalities  and  surroundings  that  were  big  with 
import.  That  place  is  naught  less  than  the  great  Riccardi 
Palace,  the  home  of  the  Medici  and  one  of  the  most  splendid 
palaces  ever  built.  Here  in  the  companionship  of  chosen 
scholars,  philosophers,  artists  and  poets,  and  surrounded  by 
art  objects  of  every  description,  the  most  gifted  son  of  Flor- 
ence spent  two  years  of  his  impressionable  youth  as  a  veri- 
table son  of  the  greatest  art  patron  who  ever  lived. 

317 


3i8  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

The  circumstances  leading  to  this  remarkable  experience  have 
been  so  often  narrated  that  we  need  allude  to  them  but  briefly ; 
the  poverty  of  the  parental  home  both  in  material  goods  and 
in  spiritual  sympathy,  the  father's  pride  in  his  doubtful 
nobility  and  his  foolish  prejudice  against  all  gainful  pursuits, 
his  reluctant  consent  that  the  boy  should  be  a  painter,  and 
his  despair  when  he  chose  to  be  a  ''stone  cutter"  instead,  all 
this  is  but  a  dramatic  foil  to  the  splendid  opportunity  so  soon 
to  open  before  him.  All  have  heard,  too,  of  the  brief  appren- 
ticeship in  Ghirlandajo's  studio,  fruitful  in  spite  of  its  doubt- 
ful harmony  and  its  feeble  inspiration,  and  of  the  teacher's 
more  than  willing  response  to  the  request  of  Lorenzo  that  the 
unmanageable  pupil  should  be  transferred  to  Bertoldo's 
school  of  sculpture  in  the  garden  of  San  Marco,  where,' after 
a  brief  apprenticeship,  the  famous  Faun  Mask  was  to  attract 
the  attention  and  win  the  favor  of  the  great  Magnifico.  It 
is  less  important  to  narrate  again  circumstances  so  familiar 
than  it  is  to  picture  clearly  to  our  minds  the  conditions  under 
which  the  boy  lived  in  this  most  remarkable  household. 

There  have  been  many  princely  patrons  of  art,  but  surely 
never  another  like  Lorenzo  de'  Medici.  Other  patrons  have 
been  free  with  their  bounty,  with  their  friendship  and  their 
time,  but  hardly  another  has  carried  his  favor  to  the  extent  of 
full  family  adoption.  Such  was  literally  the  practice  of  Lo- 
renzo. Under  his  roof  dwelt  in  this  fullest  family  intimacy, 
representatives  of,  those  varied  branches  of  art  and  learning 
which  it  was  his  enlightened  pleasure  to  foster.  Each  had  his 
room  with  appropriate  belongings  and  suitable  provisions  for 
his  wants,  even  a  liberal  allowance  of  spending  money.  Most 
noteworthy  of  all,  each  had  absolutely  the  privileges  of  sons 
in  the  family,  the  ruling  principle  in  which  was  freedom  and 
unconventional  intimacy.  It  was  the  rule  of  the  household 
that  whoso  came  first  to  meals  sat  next  to  the  Magnifico  him- 
self, and  the  others  following  in  order  of  arrival.  Such 
arrangement  assured  not  only  frequent  access  to  Lorenzo, 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola    319 

but  the  fullest  possible  mixing  and  acquaintance  among  this 
remarkable  company.  When  we  recall  that  each  of  these 
adopted  members  of  the  household  was  a  remarkable  man  and 
positive  personality,  the  wonder  grows  that  this  supreme 
master  of  men  should  have  been  able  to  dominate  such  a  house- 
hold without  repression  or  conventional  restraint. 

It  was  into  such  a  household  that  this  soul-starved  boy  of 
fifteen  was  transferred  from  the  cramped  parental  household, 
where  a  sickly  mother,  a  large  group  of  selfish  and  worthless 
brothers,  and  a  narrow  and  stubborn  father  found  a  grievance 
in  his  passion  for  art.  From  childhood,  we  are  told,  he  had 
been  beaten  for  this  passion  which  none  of  his  family  under- 
stood, and  which  to  the  end  they  appreciated  only  as  a  means 
of  filling  the  family  purse.  No  association  with  the  unin- 
spired Ghirlandajo  or  the  old  hack,  Bertoldo,  who  guided  his 
studies  in  the  garden,  could  have  prepared  him  for  a  transition 
so  momentous. 

Among  the  members  of  this  Table  Round  to  which  Michel- 
angelo was  now  admitted,  were  men  to  whom  the  world  is 
more  indebted  than  its  short  memory  suggests.  Such  was 
Luigi  Pulci,  the  raciest  of  humorists  and  popular  poets, 
Angelo  Poliziano,  the  most  polished  classical  scholar  and 
finished  poet  of  his  time  and  the  highest  representative  of  the 
humanist  philosophy,  Pico  della  Mirandola,  the  great  Oriental 
scholar,  and  Marsilio  Ficino,  the  great  Platonist,  whose  dream 
it  was  to  unite  the  philosophy  of  this  greatest  of  Greek  minds 
with  the  teachings  of  the  Christian  faith.  Not  one  of  these 
was  without  influence  upon  the  youthful  Michelangelo,  who, 
with  all  his  ruggedness  of  character,  was  at  this  age  like  clay 
in  the  potter's  hands.  When  we  read  his  sonnets  of  a  later 
time,  whose  grander  strains  are  relieved  at  times  by  a  touch 
of  the  burlesque,  we  are  reminded  of  this  association  with 
Poliziano  and  even  with  Pulci.  Above  all,  when  we  see  how 
Christian  themes,  which  had  become  in  the  art  of  the  human- 
ist painters  the  emptiest  of  dead  forms,  now  live  again  with  a 


320  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art, 


vaster  meaning  which  transcends  all  old-time  dogma,  we  are 
reminded  of  Ficino  and  of  the  favorite  discussions  in  which  he 
was  but  the  leader  among  this  company  of  the  elect.  It  was 
characteristic  of  Michelangelo  to  grasp  the  larger  truth  under- 
lying the  local  forms  of  dogma,  and  this  was  precisely  what 
Ficino  and  the  Platonists  of  the  Florentine  Academy  sought  to 
accomplish.  They  had  at  least  one  convert.  Michelangelo, 
always  a  devout  Christian,  was  all  his  life  in  belief  a  Christian 
Platonist,  and  he  has  immortalized  in  his  art  this  much  neg- 
lected achievement  of  the  Renaissance. 

To  this  wonderful  environment  of  personality  we  must  add 
the  hardly  less  influential  environment  of  finished  art  by  which 
the  boy  was  now  surrounded.  The  palace  was  filled  with 
every  variety  of  art,  from  the  most  trifling  bric-a-brac  to  the 
masterpieces  of  the  greatest  artists.  There  were  coins  and 
vases  and  gems,  tapestries  and  pictures  and  bas-reliefs ;  there 
were  statues  in  marble  and  bronze,  works  of  the  unknown 
ancients,  and  of  the  great  Florentines  who  had  so  lately  emu- 
lated them.  Almost  every  great  artist  whom  we  have  studied 
had  worked  for  this  illustrious  house,  and  the  palace  contained 
reminders  of  their  presence.  Among  these  incomparable 
suggestions  Michelangelo  was  no  passive  spectator.  It  is 
recorded  that  the  Magnifico  himself  was  in  the  habit  of  dis- 
cussing these  things  with  him,  both  asking  his  judgment  and 
expressing  his  own.  When  it  is  remembered  that  Lorenzo's 
patronage  of  art  was  as  discriminating  as  it  was  generous, 
that  in  taste  and  the  perception  of  beauty  he  was  easily  first 
among  the  wonderful  company  that  he  gathered  about  him, 
the  value  of  this  friendship  can  be  imagined.  Was  there 
ever  a  school  like  that  of  Lorenzo? 

But  another  and  a  greater  teacher  was  at  hand.  Already 
in  the  second  year  of  Michelangelo's  sojourn  in  the  great  palace, 
Florence  was  stirred  by  the  voice  of  the  mighty  monk  who  was 
so  soon  to  be  the  controlling  factor  in  her  destiny.  He  had 
been  in  Florence  eight  years  before,  but  all  unnoticed.     In  the 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola    321 

meantime  he  had  discovered,  a  new  power,  and  Florence  a 
new  want.  Certain  it  is  that  all  eyes  were  now  turned  toward 
the  most  remarkable  preacher  whom  history  records.  All 
Florence  began  to  stream  to  San  Marco,  and  then  to  the  great 
Duomo,  whose  vast  depths  themselves  could  scarce  accommo- 
date the  throng  of  the  curious  and  soon  of  the  conscience- 
stricken,  impelled  by  that  strange  hunger  which  men  feel  for 
the  words  of  condemnation  and  of  doom.  Is  it  that  only 
the  messenger  of  condemnation  can  be  the  messenger  of 
grace  ? 

It  goes  without  saying  that  such  a  phenomenon  would  not 
pass  unnoticed  in  the  great  palace.  If  the  intellectual  alertness 
and  broad  tolerance  of  the  Table  Round  had  not  insured  the 
newcomer  a  hearing,  the  amazing  boldness  of  his  allusions  to 
this  same  palace  and  its  princely  head  would  have  insured  their 
lively  interest.  But  we  shall  quite  misjudge  the  temper  of  a 
Ficino  or  a  Poliziano,  yes,  even  of  a  Lorenzo,  if  we  imagine 
them  moved  with  petty  jealousy  or  resentment.  Tolerance 
of  the  most  absolute  character  had  long  been  the  fixed  rule  of 
this  wonderful  household,  and  the  masterly  skill  of  Lorenzo 
made  recourse  to  the  dark  arts  of  suspicion  and  repression 
both  unnecessary  and  repugnant.  Doubtless  the  monk 
made  him  uneasy,  but  this  was  but  one  of  a  thousand  problems 
which  had  taxed  the  skill  which  it  was  his  pleasure  to  exercise. 
Finally,  we  must  not  imagine  from  the  furious  invectives  of 
Savonarola  or  from  the  known  moral  laxity  of  the  Medicean 
palace  that  the  attitude  of  the  table  or  of  its  head  was  alto- 
gether unsympathetic  toward  the  message  that  was  now 
thundered  from  the  pulpit  of  the  great  Duomo.  Doubtless 
these  practical  manipulators  of  men  were  incredulous  as  to 
the  feasibility  of  the  universal  regeneration  so  peremptorily 
demanded,  incredulous  even  as  to  its  entire  practicability  for 
their  individual  selves,  but  the  ideals  of  the  stern  monk  were 
not  theoretically  at  odds  with  those  of  a  Ficino  or  a  Lorenzo. 
There  was  a  large  place  for  a  Savonarola  in  the  hearts  of  these 


32  2  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

men,  along  with  other  idealists  whom  they  honored.     Alas, 
he  seemed  to  demand  a  place  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others. 

This  family  of  the  elect  heard  Savonarola.  It  is  to  one  of 
their  members,  Pico  della  Mirandola,  that  we  are  chiefly 
indebted  for  our  knowledge  of  his  power.  Beyond  question, 
therefore,  Michelangelo  was  among  his  hearers.  For  three 
years,  from  the  age  of  sixteen  to  nineteen,  he  was  under  this 
most  potent  of  influences.  During  the  first  of  these  three 
years  he  still  dwelt  in  the  great  palace,  but  the  master  mind 
was  now  relaxing  its  grip.  Disease  was  doing  its  fatal  work, 
and  the  head  of  the  table  was  doubtless  often  absent  from  the 
seat  which  he  was  soon  to  vacate  forever.  Upon  his  death, 
at  the  end  of  this  first  year  of  the  great  monk's  preaching, 
Michelangelo  left  the  great  palace  to  return  to  the  cheerless 
home  of  his  childhood.  Under  these  changed  conditions  we 
can  imagine  the  increasing  ascendency  of  the  mighty  preacher. 
It  is  not  simply  that  Michelangelo  was  young,  and  that  he  was 
under  the  influence  of  a  preacher  whose  power  was  unprec- 
edented and  whose  appeal  was  well  nigh  universal.  There 
was  between  the  two  men  a  temperamental  sympathy,  un- 
noticed as  yet,  but  already  clearly  indicated,  which  was  soon 
to  be  fully  revealed  in  Michelangelo's  master  work.  Minor 
points  of  agreement  we  note  in  their  instinctive  asceticism 
and  their  passionate  intensity,  but  new  points  of  agreement 
rapidly  developed.  In  strange  conflict  with  his  Medicean 
affinities,  Michelangelo  responded  with  all  the  passionate  in- 
tensity of  his  nature  to  the  stern  monk's  appeal  for  liberty 
and  popular  government  and  for  purity  in  public  and  private 
life.  This  meant  beyond  question  the  end  of  the  Medicean 
rule,  and  Michelangelo,  though  still  sustaining  relations  of 
friendship  to  members  of  this  illustrious  house,  ever  after 
appears  as  a  passionate  opponent  of  their  rule  in  Florence. 
Thus  were  laid  the  foundations  of  the  great  life  conflict  which 
was  to  play  so  momentous  a  part  in  his  later  life.  Feeling  the 
sense  of  obligatio^i  as  strongly  as  he  felt  all  other  things,  he 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola    323 

could  never  absolve  himself  from  his  obligation  to  a  house 
whose  favor  he  had  thus  unwittingly  accepted.  And,  in  turn, 
feeling  with  ten-fold  intensity  the  need  of  liberty  for  the 
realization  of  manhood,  he  learned  from  Savonarola  while 
yet  in  his  teens,  to  execrate  the  family  which  had  been  chiefly 
instrumental  in  its  suppression.  The  school  of  Savonarola 
had  supplanted  the  school  of  Lorenzo,  not  undoing  its  work, 
for  such  influences  can  never  be  effaced,  but  changing  the 
earlier  perspective  and  crowning  all  with  its  own  titanic 
spiritual  ideals. 

We  naturally  look  with  eagerness  among  the  works  of 
Michelangelo  for  reminders  of  this  earHest  time.  They  are 
not  wanting,  though  they  are  left  to  tell  their  own  story  with 
little  help  from  contemporary  records.  The  Faun  Mask  of 
the  Bargello,  often  questioned,  but  for  no  very  convincing 
reason,  recalls  his  first  meeting  with  Lorenzo  and  his  quick  and 
deft  adoption  of  the  latter's  suggestion  that  a  tooth  or  two  be 
knocked  out,  which  won  him  the  invitation  to  the  palace.  It 
is  said  to  have  been  made  for  his  own  amusement  from  a  piece 
of  waste  marble  begged  for  the  purpose.  Probably  enough, 
but  back  of  these  surface  facts,  we  may  doubtless  trace  the 
influence  of  the  arid  Bertoldo,  that  practical  craftsman, 
whose  youthful  association  with  the  great  Donatello  and  his 
abject  homage  to  the  antique  were  doubtless  responsible  for 
his  appointment  to  this  important  post.  Without  contradict- 
ing tradition,  we  may  perhaps  see  in  this  choice  of  a  subject  a 
suggestion  from  Bertoldo,  whose  extant  works  include  a  setting 
of  classical  bric-a-brac  forDonatello's  Passion  of  the  Lord,  and 
slavish  copies  of  battle  scenes  from  degenerate  Roman  sar- 
cophagi for  no  purpose  whatever. 

More  significant  among  Michelangelo's  earliest  works  is 
the  so-called  Battle  of  the  Centaurs  (C  439)  of  the  Casa 
Buonarroti,  an  unfinished  relief  which  we  might  again  attribute 
to  the  suggestion  of  Bertoldo,  did  we  not  know  that  in  this 
case  we  are  dealing  with  the  greater  Poliziano.     Just  what 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola    325 

portion  of  the  Greek  myth  is  here  represented  is  uncertain,  — 
and  of  no  consequence.  Although  a  production  of  Michel- 
angelo's extreme  youth,  it  is  an  epoch-making  work,  holding 
the  place  in  sculpture  which  Leonardo's  early  works  hold  in 
painting.     It  claims  our  careful  attention. 

Reverting  for  a  moment  to  Bertoldo's  battle  scene  and 
to  the  sarcophagi  which  suggested  it,  we  note  that  the 
traditional  field  is  a  long  rectangle,  that  the  figures  are  ar- 
ranged of  necessity  on  an  approximate  level,  with  a  tendency  to 
the  formation  of  two  or  more  rows.  This  arrangement  which 
we  may  call  zone  composition,  we  recall,  is  identical  with  that 
prevailing  in  painting  up  to  the  time  of  Leonardo,  a  com- 
position which  has  advantages  as  a  decoration,  but  which  for 
the  intenser  and  more  vital  purposes  of  the  Renaissance,  is 
weak,  lacking  focus  and  concentration.  This  lack  of  focus 
would  hardly  have  disturbed  a  Bertoldo,  whose  loyalty  to  the 
ancients  was  unquestioning,  and  who  besides  never  had  any- 
thing to  focus.  The  scheme  was  doubtless  held  up  as  an 
exemplar  to  the  young  Michelangelo  who  has  significantly 
departed  from  it.  First  of  all,  he  has  shortened  the  long  rec- 
tangle to  an  approximate  square,  thus  of  necessity  condensing 
the  scene.  This,  characteristically  enough,  is  noted  by  a 
modern  critic,  as  a  defect.  The  rows  of  heads  may  still  be 
traced,  the  upper  row  distinctly  and  the  others  faintly  and 
with  noticeable  interruptions.  But  the  longer  we  gaze,  the 
clearer  it  becomes  that  these  zones  are  not  the  vital  thing. 
Even  the  upper  row,  which  is  continuous  in  a  sense,  after  all 
has  a  prominent  head  in  the  center,  a  less  prominent  head  at 
each  end,  and  heads  in  between  which  sink  into  lowest  relief 
and  withdraw  into  deep  perspective.  The  prominence  given 
to  this  central  figure  is  immensely  increased  by  the  breaking  of 
the  second  and  lower  lines,  thus  opening  a  center  in  which  this 
figure  is  supreme.  The  prominence  and  the  majesty  of  this 
central  figure  enable  it  to  dominate  the  whole  composition, 
which  thus  becomes  a  centered  rather  than  a  zone  composition, 


326  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

a  solution  of  the  problem  different  from  Leonardo's,  but  recog- 
nizing the  same  need. 

The  center  thus  established,  the  whole  composition  must  be 
adjusted  to  it.  It  will  not  do  merely  to  make  a  gap  in  these 
rows  and  thrust  in  a  prominent  figure.  In  this  adjustment  we 
have  the  first  proof  of  the  sculptor's  skill.  The  frame  of  our 
picture  is  square;  the  arrangement  about  the  center  would 
naturally  be  approximately  round.  The  problem  is  to  *'  break 
from  the  square  into  the  round."  On  the  left  we  have  a  series 
of  masses  arranged  in  perpendicular ;  then  a  youth  who  leans 
backward  and  the  axis  of  whose  body  thus  forms  a  Hne  slant- 
ing outward ;  then  a  figure  whose  back  furnishes  another  line 
sloping  still  more ;  then  the  arm  of  this  same  figure  which  in- 
creases the  angle  so  that  now  it  beautifully  bounds  or  frames 
the  central  picture.  The  arm  of  the  resisting  woman  starts 
the  upward  slope  on  the  other  side,  which  is  continued  by  arms 
and  heads  most  admirably  arranged,  both  to  express  action 
in  all  its  spontaneity,  and  to  weave  the  border  round  the 
heroic  figure  that  he  has  chosen  to  make  so  dominant.  What 
induced  the  artist  to  leave  such  a  masterpiece  incomplete,  we  do 
not  know,  but  very  possibly  because  he  had  a  vision  of  better 
things.  Not  only  a  new  arrangement,  but  a  new  conception 
of  sculpture  is  manifest  in  all  later  work.  Not  in  crowded 
reliefs  but  in  a  few  simple  figures  does  he  see  its  possibilities. 
We  cannot  pass  this  youthful  work  without  noticing  that  it  is 
much  more  than  a  study  in  technique.  It  is  not  merely 
sculpture ;  it  is  art,  and  thoroughly  representative  of  the  tem- 
perament later  to  be  revealed  in  the  great  ceiling.  Here  is  no 
fret  and  fume  of  little  souls ;  all  is  deadly  serious,  but  majestic, 
dignified.  Here  at  the  outset  we  encounter  the  same  large- 
souled  and  life-weary  Titans  who  up  until  the  last,  are  ever 
ready  at  his  call.     Already  he  is  Michelangelo. 

One  more  work  dates  from  this  period,  the  beautiful 
Madonna  of  the  Stair  (C  440)  in  low  relief,  also  in  the  Casa 
Buonarroti.     Nothing  can  exceed  the  beauty  of  this  relief, 


C  440,  Madonna  of  the  Stair.    Casa  Buonanoti,  Florence. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


328  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

its  exquisite  and  unconventional  draperies,  the  traditional 
head  dress  of  the  Madonna,  now  flung  on  with  careless  ease, 
the  dimpled  child  at  the  breast,  his  pulpy  arm  bulged  out 
against  the  mother's  firmer  wrist.  The  realism  of  the  whole 
is  startling.  Yet  this  realism  shrouds  an  idealism  which 
never  fails  us  in  the  sculptor's  work.  This  is  our  first  ac- 
quaintance with  that  large-souled  creature  whose  thought 
so  far  transcends  the  homely  surroundings  and  the  object  of 
mother  love.  Is  this  the  ecclesiastical  Madonna  of  the 
earher  art,  with  throne  and  saints  and  conscious  accepted 
homage?  Nothing  could  be  farther  from  it  than  this  scene 
of  most  intimate  privacy,  this  unconventionality  of  garb  and 
action.  Is  this  then  the  nature  Madonna,  the  embodiment 
of  care  free  mother  love  and  joy?  Again  the  suggestion  is 
remote.  It  is  a  new  conception,  the  unconventional  and  the 
ordinary  made  the  receptacle  of  the  most  extraordinary  and 
exalted  meaning. 

There  is  a  disposition  to  assign  this  to  an  earlier  date  than 
the  Battle  of  the  Centaurs,  because  of  its  simplicity  and  its 
resemblance  to  the  low  relief  of  Donatello,  but  our  artist 
shows  a  consciousness  of  Donatello  much  later  than  this,  and 
when  we  recall  that  the  classical  pressure  of  Bertoldo  and 
Poliziano  were  strongest  in  the  earlier  period  and  that  the 
influence  of  Savonarola  waxed  as  theirs  waned,  we  may 
safely  see  in  this  modest  work  the  not  unworthy  record  of  the 
message  of  the  great  prophet. 

With  the  expulsion  of  the  Medici  from  Florence  in  1494, 
Michelangelo,  then  a  youth  of  nineteen,  left  Florence.  What- 
ever his  sympathies  with  Savonarola,  there  was  little  chance 
that  the  new  condition  of  things  would  furnish  employment  to 
an  artist,  and  we  need  not  look  farther  than  to  his  own  need 
and  the  importunities  of  his  impecunious  family  for  an  expla- 
nation of  his  departure.  After  an  unsuccessful  search  for 
work  in  Venice,  accident  offered  the  desired  opportunity  in 
Bologna,  where,  in  the  old  church  of  Saint  Dominic  stood  one 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola    329 

of  the  most  remarkable  shrines  in  Italy,  begun,  as  we  long 
ago  noted,  by  Niccolo  Pisano,  and  now  waiting,  after  impor- 
tant intermediate  additions,  for  the  finishing  touch  of  Michel- 
angelo. He  was  first  employed  to  finish  an  uncompleted  stat- 
uette upon  the  top,  then  other  portions,  and  finally,  to  carve 
an  angel  to  match  one  on  the  other  side,  executed  by  Niccolo 
da  Bari  (B  497)  a  few  years  before.  This  work,  perhaps  the 
first  ever  done  for  pay,  marks  the  culmination  of  his  youthful 
inspiration.  It  is  best  appreciated  by  comparison  with  the 
other  of  which  it  is  necessarily  the  pendant.  The  earlier  work 
was  of  singular  beauty,  the  childlike  face,  the  curling  hair, 
the  charming  posture,  but  some  things  apparently  did  not 
meet  the  approval  of  the  young  Michelangelo.  The  dra- 
peries are  very  heavy,  and  the  contrast  of  high-lights  and 
shadows  pronounced.  In  the  interest  of  feathery  realism, 
the  wings  are  ruffled  and  their  curving  contour  broken.  The 
notch  in  the  bent  knee  is  unpleasantly  sharp.  All  these  de- 
fects are  removed  in  the  companion  piece.  The  truer  line  of 
the  mng,  the  softer  outUne  at  the  knee,  show  plainly  that 
Michelangelo  remembers  that  the  silhouette  of  his  work  is 
part  of  the  outUne  of  the  shrine  and  must  have  its  architec- 
tural comeliness.  Above  all,  the  softened  treatment  of  the 
drapery,  subdued  and  casting  no  sharp  edged  shadows,  a  treat- 
ment extending  even  to  the  face,  is  an  admirable  example  of 
decorative  subordination,  an  example  unique  in  Michelangelo's 
work. 

So  far  the  changes  made  by  Michelangelo  are  in  the  interest 
of  decorative  adaptation.  A  glance  at  the  face,  however, 
discloses  a  change  which  is  susceptible  of  no  such  explanation. 
The  face  has  that  large  eyed  seriousness  with  its  lurking  hint 
of  pathos  with  which  the  Madonna  has  more  justly  made  us 
familiar.  The  change  is  in  deference  to  Michelangelo's  tem- 
perament which  cannot  dissociate  beauty  from  this  deeper 
spiritual  suggestiveness.  It  is  the  noblest  of  themes  in  art , 
but  one  only  moderately  adapted  to  minor  decorative  works 


B  497,  Kneeling  Angel  with  Candlestick,  Shrine  of  St.  Dominic. 
S.  Domenico,  Bologna.    Niccolb  da  Bari,  1414-1494. 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola    331 

like  this.  But  ungracious  indeed  must  be  the  man  who  would 
press  the  point  in  such  a  presence. 

Michelangelo's  absence  from  Florence  was  brief,  and  but 
for  this  wonderful  record  in  Bologna  might  pass  unnoticed. 
He  was  soon  back  in  Florence  where  the  Savonarola  regime 
seemed  established,  and  relatives  of  his  old-time  patrons  were 
found  to  give  him  employment  with  results  that  interest  us 
little.  More  to  our  purpose  would  be,  if  we  could  know  it,  the 
record  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings  under  the  continued 
influence  of  the  great  preacher.  If,  as  we  have  reason  to 
believe,  his  attitude  was  one  of  increasing  sympathy,  we  can 
imagine  how  violent  must  have  been  the  transition  as  he 
found  himself  in  1496,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  in  the  city 
which  was  soon  to  claim  him  for  its  own. 

From  the  first,  Rome  has  been  the  vortex  into  which  was 
drawn  the  talent  and  resource  of  the  world.  From  the  days 
of  Cincinnatus,  Rome  laid  the  world  under  tribute,  tribute  of 
money  and  of  toil,  tribute  of  genius  and  of  power.  Always 
the  center  toward  which  these  elements  gravitated,  she  was  a 
center  in  which  they  were  never  produced.  The  long  list  of 
Rome's  great  men,  from  the  earliest  days  of  the  empire,  is  a 
list  of  provincials  that  contributed  their  genius  to  the  main- 
tenance of  the  prestige  and  power  of  the  Eternal  City.  Her 
art  was  imported,  whether  made  within  her  gates  or  not. 
That  which  was  true  in  the  days  of  Caesar  was  as  true  in  the 
days  of  Michelangelo.  The  while  producing  nothing,  she 
was  the  goal  toward  which  inevitably  gravitated  all  that  the 
world  produced.  Throughout  the  history  of  the  Renaissance, 
even  in  that  later  period  when  the  patronage  of  Rome  was  so 
munificent,  not  a  single  artist  whose  name  is  worthy  of  men- 
tion owned  the  parentage  of  Rome.  None  the  less,  not  a 
single  artist  counted  himself  fully  fortunate  unless  his  career 
was  rounded  out  by  employment  in  this  supreme  center. 

The  opportunity  which  Michelangelo  first  found  in  Rome 
was  one  to  justify  our  worst  apprehensions.    Patrons,  broadly 


332  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

recognized  as  the  connoisseurs  of  art  in  their  day,  were  in 
bondage  to  the  antique.  Already  that  little  word  "classical," 
which  so  many  worship  and  so  few  understand,  held  the  world 
in  awe.  This  is  no  place  to  define  that  indefinable  word.  It 
may  not  be  amiss  to  suggest  that  in  the  last  analysis  the  thing 
that  awes  us  in  the  classical  is  but  a  reminiscence  of  the  Greek. 
The  remotest  echo  of  the  ideals  of  Hellas  has  lent  a  charm  to 
all  that  was  associated  with  it,  even  to  the  least  intelligent 
age.  And  this,  beyond  question,  was  the  reason  for  the 
abject  worship  in  which  men  bowed  to  the  antique.  The 
philosophy  of  Plato  and  Aristotle  that  to  the  minds  of  the 
cultured  in  this  day  had  dimmed  the  lustre  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, the  charm  of  Greek  oratory,  of  Greek  architecture,  and, 
even  more  perhaps,  the  reverence  for  all  things  Greek  which 
had  never  died  in  Italy  from  the  time  of  Caesar  to  the  time 
of  LorenzoTall  these~gav€Lto  the  antique  a  charm  which,  in 
the  form  in  which  they  knew  it;^w^  not  its  due,  for  the  antique 
as  men  then  knew  it  was  not  the  Greek  but  the  Roman,  a 
travesty  and  a  caricature  of  Greek  taste  atid^^eek  spirit. 
Where  the  Greek  had  Dionysus,  his  god  of  InBpir^on 
symbolized  by  the  inspiration  of  wine,  the  Romans  saw  om 
Bacchus,  his  counterpart,  the  god  of  Drunkenness.  Where 
the  Greek  saw  in  the  wondrous  Aphrodite  the  symbol  of  the 
self-renewing  power  of  nature,  pure  as  the  very  foam  of  the 
sea  from  which  she  rose,  the  Roman  saw  his  Venus,  the 
embodiment  of  passion  and  lust.  The  abject  works  of  Ro- 
man eclecticism  were  the  legacy  of  the  Italian  Renaissance. 
Rarely  if  ever  did  the  artist  or  the  connoisseur  of  this  time 
see  the  work  of  a  Greek  chisel.  Such  as  revealed  in  any 
degree  the  Greek  spirit,  were  seen  through  the  thick  veil  of 
Roman  copying,,  too  often  but  a  silly  caricature.  Yet  at  no 
period  in  the  world's  history  was  the  dogma  more  absolute 
that  art  was  of  the  ancients.  Poor  blind  leaders  of  the  blind, 
these  connoisseurs,  to  whom  the  fate  of  Christianity's  great- 
est artist  was  for  a  time  entrusted,  little  dreamed  that  the 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola    333 

feeblest  work  Michelangelo  ever  executed  was  nobler  than  the 
best  antique  they  ever  knew.  The  story,  possibly  mythical, 
that  is  told  of  Michelangelo's  advent  to  Rome,  perfectly  re- 
veals the  conditions  under  which  he  now  must  labor.  He  is 
said  to  have  sent  a  statue  of  a  sleeping  Cupid  to  Rome  as  a 
sample  of  his  work,  but  the  dealer  to  whom  it  was  entrusted 
decided  to  bury  it  and  then  to  unearth  it  with  the  dirt  stick- 
ing to  it,  and  give  it  out  for  an  antic^ue.  A  connoisseur  was 
imposed  upon  and  added  it  to  his  collection,  nothing  doubt- 
ing its  authenticity.  The  discovery  of  the  swindle  won  for 
the  dealer  the  displeasure  of  his  patron,  but  for  the  artist  the 
necessary  prestige  and  employment.  The  employment  thus 
secured  was  at  first  of  the  most  dubious  kind  —  a  Drunken 
Bacchus,  subject  chosen  by  a  patron,  treated  by  a  Michel- 
angelo; a  marvel  of  skill  but  an  infamy  just  the  same;  a 
Kneeling  Cupid,  again  a  skillful,  enigmatical,  uninspired  work; 
and  finally,  with  advancing  respect,  it  won  for  him  greater 
freedom  and  an  opportunity  possibly,  at  last,  to  choose  his 
subject  for  himself.  Whether  self-chosen  or  otherwise, 
Michelangelo  at  last  was  privileged  to  treat  a  subject  congenial 
to  his  temperament  in  the  great  Pieta  (C  444) ,  now  the  chief 
glory  of  St.  Peter's. 

The  significance  of  this  wonderful  group  is  so  great  that 
every  visitor  to  Rome  should  make  it  a  subject  of  study. 
Probably  few  things  that  Michelangelo  has  done  are  studied 
less,  and  the  reason  is  not  strange  to  seek,  for  its  signifi- 
cance is  not  of  the  kind  that  appeals  to  the  casual  observer. 
It  is  not,  like  most  of  Michelangelo's  works,  deeply  charged 
with  spiritual  feeling.  There  is  no  inappropriate  sentiment, 
nor  is  the  work  devoid  of  sentiment.  Executed  by  another 
sculptor  it  would  be  only  dignified  and  solemn,  but  to  those 
that  know  Michelangelo's  later  work  there  is  a  higher  height 
and  a  deeper  depth  which  the  Pieta  does  not  reach. 

The  Pieta,  a  name  applied,  strictly  speaking,  to  a  group  of 
two  figures,  the  Mother  mourning  over  the  dead  Christ,  has 


C  444,  Pieta.     S.  Peter's,  Rome.     Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola    335 

proved  throughout  Christian  art  an  almost  impossible  sub- 
ject. In  addition  to  the  obvious  difficulties  of  expressing  the 
sentiment  of  a  mother  on  such  an  occasion,  and  adequately 
representing  the  corpse  with  proper  distribution  of  emphasis, 
there  are  other  difficulties  which  in  painting  have  always 
been  serious  and  in  sculpture  insuperable.  First  of  all,  there 
is  the  question  of  proper  grouping  or  composition.  It  is 
quite  a  different  problem  in  sculpture  from  what  it  is  in  paint- 
ing. There  is  no  frame  around  sculpture  ordinarily,  unless 
it  be  the  larger  setting  of  the  place  in  which  it  is  put.  But 
there  are  other  things  to  consider.  First  of  all,  sculpture  is' 
made  of  stone  which  is  heavy  and  brittle.  We  are  all  per- 
fectly familiar  with  that,  and  no  real  sculptor  attempts  to  de- 
ceive us  on  that  point.  If  he  could  measurably  disguise  his 
stone  so  as  to  deceive  us  as  to  its  real  character,  he  would  lose 
more  than  he  gained.  This  being  the  fact,  and  a  fact  of  com- 
mon knowledge,  it  follows  that  whenever  we  look  at  a  statue 
we  shall  have  a  double  consciousness.  There  will  be  in  the 
first  place  the  thought  of  man,  woman,  or  whatever  is  there 
represented.  This,  of  course,  is  what  the  artist  is  trying  to 
give  us.  And  there  will  be  a  consciousness  in  the  background 
perhaps,  but  always  there,  that  this  is  a  stone.  Now  it  is 
obvious  that  this  latter  consciousness  ought  to  be  kept  in  the 
background.  It  is  not  the  purpose  of  the  artist  to  keep  us 
thinking  about  stone.  We  must  know  it  and  forget  it  as 
completely  as  possible.  And  the  only  way  we  can  forget  it  is 
that  the  stone  should  be  treated  as  stone.  It  will  never  do  to 
try  hazardous  experiments  with  stone,  for  that  will  set  us  to 
thinking  about  the  stone.  For  instance,  when  an  artist  carves 
leaves  in  stone,  it  will  not  do  to  carve  them  too  thin.  The 
moment  he  does  that,  the  mind  begins  to  marvel  and  wonder 
that  stone  can  be  cut  so  thin  without  breaking.  Now  this  is 
not  what  the  artist  wants  the  mind  to  dwell  upon,  if  he  is  a  ) 
true  artist  at  all.  If  he  is  merely  an  artisan,  as  unfortunately  v 
such  stone  carvers  often  are,  then  he  will  enjoy  having  us 


336  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

marvel  at  his  skill.  But  the  artist  wants  us  to  think  about  his 
leaf,  not  about  his  cleverness  in  cutting  the  brittle  stone. 
So  he  will  not  make  it  look  too  much  like  a  leaf,  but  merely 
the  hint  of  a  leaf  in  stone,  with  great  respect  for  the  character 
of  his  stone.  That  is,  to  use  a  technical  phrase  which  is  some- 
times useful,  he  will  avoid  natural  forms  and  will  make  lithic 
forms,  —  stone  forms,  forms  that  will  seem  to  the  beholder 
to  be  quite  possible  for  stone.  It  is  better  to  hint  at  a  hii 
and  not  to  arouse  in  the  mind  the  thought  of  stone  and.  its 
brittleness,  than  it  is  to  fully  express  a  leaf  and  cha^away 
from  the  mind  all  thought  about  it. 

The  principle  applies  with  great  force  to  sculpture,  espe- 
cially to  groups  of  sculpture  in  the  round.  When/ we  carve  a 
relief  upon  a  slab  of  stone,  the  case  is  not  quite  the  same.  If 
we  avoid  any  extravagant  thinness  or  under-cutting,  we  can 
arrange  the  figures  as  we  please,  for  since  they  aidhere  to  the 
background  we  have  no  question  as  to  their  stability  and  are 
not  prompted  to  indulge  in  such  thoughts  about  mem.  But 
if  we  detach  them  from  the  background  these  problems  at 
once  become  important.  If  they  sprawl  too  muchXstretch- 
ing  out  arms  and  legs,  there  is  first  of  all  the  danger  that  these 
will  be  broken  off,  as  very  often  happens.  But  there  is  a 
worse  danger  than  that,  —  the  danger  that  we  will  stop  and 
think  about  the  possibility  of  their  being  broken  off.  NoVthe 
artist  must  at  all  costs  prevent  our  stopping  and  thinking 
about  anything  except  just  the  thought  that  he  is  trying  to 
express  in  marble.  There  is  always  a  tendency  in  the  evolu- 
tion of  true  sculpture  toward  an  engrossing  appreciation  of 
what  has  been  admirably  called  ''integrity  of  mass,"  that  is, 
sculptors  like  to  have  their  groups  bunched  well  together, 
broad,  stable,  solid,  and  offering  a  minimum  of  opportunity 
for  accident  and  disaster.  For  one  thing,  a  group  of  sculp- 
ture must  never  look  as  though  it  would  tip  over.  If  it  does 
tip  over,  it  and  much  else  will  suffer.  No  matter  how  well 
supported,  if  it  suggests  to  the  mind  the  thought  of  tipping 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola     337 


over,  it  will  banish  from  the  mind  the  thought  of  its  beauty  or 
meaning. 

Now  the  compactness  which  is  always  desired  in  great  sculp)- 
ture  is  extremely  difficult  in  the  subject  we  have  before  us. 
In  the  Cathedral  at  Berne,  for  instance,  there  is  a  Pieta 
represented  quite  naturalistically,  with  the  figure  of  the  Christ 
stretched  out  prone  in  a  long  line  upon  the  floor,  and  then  the 
Mother  standing  at  the  head  of  the  Christ,  a  straight  figure, 
the  picture  of  despair.  But  the  eye  cannot  take  in  this  group 
with  any  ease  at  all.  Interest  is  divided  between  the  head  of 
the  Christ,  which  is  down  at  the  bottom,  and  the  head  of  the 
Mother  which  is  at  the  top,  and  the  long  drawn  out  figure  of 
the  Christ  is  either  quite  neglected  or  sends  the  eye  clear  off 
on  a  side  track.  This  suggests  another  difficulty  quite  differ- 
ent from  the  first  and  yet  allied  to  it.  Not  only  do  we  want 
the  group  to  be  massive  and  stable  because  it  is  stone  and  has 
the  weight  and  brittleness  of  stone,  but  we  also  want  the  group 
to  be  so  massed  that  all  that  is  of  interest  can  be  seen  by  the 
eye  at  once  and  without  serious  effort.  We  have  seen  how  care- 
fully Leonardo  sought  this  unified  grouping  in  painting.  It 
will  not  do  for  a  moment  for  the  artist  merely  to  follow  nature. 
Nature  has  no  such  exigencies.  Not  only  are  her  figures  made 
of  something  very  unlike  stone,  but  she  can  group  and  re- 
group at  ease  so  that  momentary  deviation  from  this  princi- 
ple of  compactness  and  visual  unity  does  not  trouble  us. 
Living  beings  keep  moving,  and  tell  us  through  their  motion 
what  statues  must  tell  us  through  repose.  An  artist  may 
scatter  bis  statues  and  make  them  look  as  though  they  were 
running  about,  but  they  will  not  run  about,  and  he  will  not 
get  the  meaning  that  actual  running  about  might  convey. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  will  lose  the  meaning  that  he  might 
secure  through  concentration  and  repose. 

Whatever  Michelangelo's  theories  on  this  subject,  he  feels 
the  need,  and  at  the  same  time  realizes  the  difficulty  of  meet- 
ing it.    He  must  have  a  compact  mass,  broad  of  base,  and 


338  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

with  interest  concentrated  within  the  range  of  a  single  glance. 
Yet  it  is  difficult  to  group  a  dead  man  and  a  living  woman  m 
this  way.  When  we  stop  to  think  of  it,  we  are  startled  at 
what  Michelangelo  has  done.  The  figure  of  the  dead  Chris| 
is  placed  in  the  mother's  lap.  It  is  an  uncanny  thought  t( 
translate  that  back  into  life.  Imagine  any  possible  circum- 
stances in  which  a  woman  should  hold  the  body  of  a  man,  noi 
matter  how  beloved,  in  her  lap.  To  a  spectator  it  would  be 
intolerable,  the  very  limit  of  the  inappropriate  and  the  un- 
pleasant. It  is  safe  to  say  that  such  a  thing  would  never 
happen.  Yet  by  some  strange  necromancy,  Michelangelo 
has  done  this  without  arousing  these  unpleasant  suggestions. 
How  has  he  done  it  ? 

First  of  all,  he  has  obviously  changed  the  proportions  of  the 
two  figures.  A  man  is  in  general  considerably  larger  and 
heavier  than  a  woman,  yet  in  this  case  it  is  clear  that  the  re- 
verse is  true.  The  figure  of  the  mother  is  colossal  and  that  o^ 
the  Christ  relatively  small,  yet  this  never  occurs  to  us  unl 
we  begin  to  analyze.  Michelangelo  perfectly  knew  thatne 
was  doing  this,  and  yet  seemed  to  realize  that  it  could  be  done 
with  impunity.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  can  be  done,nf  the 
artist  is  skillful  enough,  without  attracting  notice.  This  the 
Greek  understood  perfectly.  In  the  Parthenon  Frieze  we 
have  men  on  horseback  and  men  standing  by  their  sides  with 
their  heads  on  the  same  level,  the  figure  in  the  one  case  being 
twice  the  bulk  of  the  other.  Yet  no  one  ever  notices  this 
except  as  the  frieze  is  made  the  subject  of  analysis.  It  is  a 
thing  to  be  verified  at  a  glance  but  never  unpleasantly  noticed. 
It  is  hard  to  tell  just  why  this  is  possible  in  art.  It  is  possibly 
due  to  the  fact  that  we  are  accustomed  to  see  the  human 
figure  represented  in  all  possible  scales,  from  tiny  book  illus- 
trations up  to  heroic  sized  figures.  We  acquire  the  habit  of 
instantly  translating  them  into  their  usual  size  in  our  thought. 
This  habit  sufficiently  acquired,  we  are  able  at  last  to  do  it 
with  figures  standing  side  by  side.    We  never  look  at  a  pic- 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola    339 

ture  in  a  book  and  say,  "What  a  little  man."  We  think  of 
him  as.  full  size.  This  advantage  is  often  a  godsend  to  the 
artist,  as  in  the  case  before  us. 

With  this  difference  of  proportion,  the  sense  of  intolerable 
burden  is  greatly  relieved,  but  this  alone  would  not  accom- 
plish the  purpose.  Michelangelo  has  resorted  to  another 
method,  which  in  its  subtlety  of  perception  discloses  him  at 
once  as  an  artist  gifted  with  every  resource.  He  has  clothed 
the  figure  of  the  mother  with  voluminous  drapery  enormously 
massive  and  heavy.  These  garments  spread  out  broadly  at 
the  base,  furnishing  the  great  mass  of  the  group,  giving  it 
that  breadth  and  tapering  form  which  is  the  ideal  to  suggest 
to  the  mind  the  stability  and  repose  which  we  long  for  in  the 
static  arts  always,  and  most  of  all  in  those  whose  material 
is  ponderous  and  heavy.  But  it  is  obvious  that  a  woman 
clothed  in  very  heavy  garments  could  not  better  bear  a  weight 
than  if  clothed  lightly.  The  garments  rather  form  an  addi- 
tional burden.  It  is  strange  that  these  massive  draperies 
should  relieve  our  mind,  which  is  troubled  really  only  by  sug- 
gestion drawn  from  life  and  not  from  stone  at  all.  And  here 
is  where  the  juggling  of  our  minds  has  to  be  reckoned  with. 
As  we  said  before,  when  we  look  at  a  statue  we  have  a  double 
consciousness.  We  think  man  and  we  think  stone.  Or 
rather,  if  we  do  not  think  these  things,  they  are  in  the  back- 
ground of  our  mind  as  perfectly  realized  facts.  They  are 
totally  distinct  of  course.  A  man  is  not  a  stone,  and  a  stone 
is  not  a  man,  but  the  mind  does  not  entirely  distinguish  them. 
If  we  so  build  a  stable  mass  with  drapery,  or  no  matter  what, 
the  mind  will  have  a  feeling  of  stability  and  assurance  as  it 
gazes  upon  the  mass  of  stone,  and  that  will  counteract  the 
feeling  of  intolerable  burden  or  weight  suggested  in  connec- 
tion with  persons.  Michelangelo  has  splendidly  massed  his 
group  and  given  to  it  what  we  may  call  stone  stability.  Our 
stone  consciousness  feels  in  an  instant  that  this  great  mass 
can  bear  up   anything.     Our   person  consciousness  is  not 


340  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


satisfied,  but  these  two  are  more  or  less  merged  in  our  feeling, 
and  so  the  stone  draperies  that  could  support  a  building  seem 
to  help  the  frail  woman's  form  to  bear  this  heavy  burden. 
Such  juggling  goes  on  continually,  and  the  artist  who  is  re- 
sourceful continually  takes  advantage  of  the  stone  conscious- 
ness to  help  out  the  person  consciousness,  thus  deviating 
widely  from  nature  for  the  very  reason  that  art  is  not  nature 
and  that  the  conditions  of  its  expression  are  peculiar  to  it. 

Certain  other  things  about  this  remarkable  group  deserve 
recognition.  The  extreme  deadness  of  the  figure  of  the  Christ, 
for  instance,  the  complete  relaxation  of  the  muscles  where  the 
drooping  arm  presses  against  the  supporting  hand  of  the  mother, 
the  limpness  of  the  whole  figure,  so  difficult  to  represent  where 
the  artist  ordinarily  has  only  the  living  and  therefore  the 
unrelaxed  model  to  give  him  his  suggestion.  Michelangelo 
inaugurated  the  extraordinary  practice  of  studying  not  only 
the  nude  model  but  the  corpse  in  the  dissecting  room,  feeling 
that  only  by  this  more  fundamental  knowledge  of  structure 
could  the  artist  really  appreciate  and  accurately  discern  the 
outer  appearance  of  things.  The  attitudes,  in  turn,  are 
marvellously  expressive  if  we  perhaps  except  that  deeper 
pathos  in  the  face  which  we  miss  only  because  elsewhere  he, 
and  he  alone,  revealed  it  to  us. 

With  the  completion  of  this  remarkable  group,  whose  mas- 
tery is  equally  apparent  in  the  study  of  figure  and  life,  and  in 
the  perfect  knowledge  of  the  demands  of  his  material,  Michel- 
angelo's fame  was  established  for  all  time.  It  has  been  a 
hardy  critic  who  since  that  day  has  dared  to  challenge  Michel- 
angelo's claim  to  supremacy  in  the  world  of  art.  Certainly 
that  supremacy  was  completely  granted  by  his  contemporaries. 
Even  the  lack  that  we  perhaps  feel  in  the  statue  was  not  felt 
then,  for  it  is  only  the  later  Michelangelo  that  has  taught  the 
world  to  crave  something  more. 

One/incidental  result  of  the  completion  of  the  Pieta  was 
fraught  with  consequences  so  vast  for  the  artist  and  his  sub- 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola     341 

sequent  career,  as  to  completely  overshadow  the  intrinsic  im- 
portance of  the  work  itself.  It  was  this  work  which  attracted 
to  Michelangelo  the  attention  of  the  newly  elected  pope, 
the  great  Julius  II,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  characters  of 
this  remarkable  age,  and  one  destined  to  be  indissolubly 
bound  up  with  the  artist  in  the  memory  of  posterity.  The 
relation  between  these  two  men  and  the  works  which  were  its 
result,  may  best  be  considered  together  in  another  chapter. 
The  relation,  however,  had  its  vicissitudes  and  the  resulting 
commissions  suffered  serious  interruption.  It  was  in  one  of 
these  interruptions  that  Michelangelo  executed  the  single 
remaining  work  which  maybe  assigned  to  this  technical  period, 
namely,  the  colossal  David   (C  448) . 

The  production  of  this  statue  from  a  mishewn  and  aban- 
doned block  of  marble  has  been  often  narrated  and  need  not 
be  repeated  here.  The  block  of  marble,  which  belonged  to 
the  city,  had  been  the  occasion  of  numerous  previous  pro- 
posals and  had  possibly  acquired  something  of  the  character 
of  a  prize  or  mark  of  recognition.  When  Michelangelo, 
preceded  by  the  fame  of  the  great  Pieta,  returned  to  Flor- 
ence in  1 501,  there  was  no  hesitation  in  assigning  it  to 
him.  The  seemingly  unfavorable  character  of  the  marble 
added  to  the  fame  of  his  great  achievement.  He  did  in 
fact  utilize  the  possibilities  of  the  stone  to  the  full.  We  can 
perhaps  best  allude  in  this  connection  to  a  remarkable  char- 
acteristic in  Michelangelo's  organization  which  profoundly 
affected  his  work.  He  seems  to  have  had  a  remarkable  power 
of  visualization.  We  all  have  a  certain  power  of  picturing 
from  memory  or  imagination,  but  these  mental  pictures 
ordinarily  fall  far  short  of  actual  vision  in  definiteness  and 
permanency.  They  are  the  source  of  every  artist's  inspira- 
tion, but  their  suggestions  are  for  the  most  part  fugitive  and 
must  be  held  fast  by  rapid  sketches  in  pencil  or  wax  which  are 
later  elaborated,  with  endless  compromise  of  other  visions,  to 
a  point  where  they  permit  of  permanent  representation.    It  is 


C  448,  David.    Academy,  Florence.     Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola     343 

for  this  reason  that  so  few  works  of  art  have  the  directness 
and  spontaneity  of  actual  experiences.  They  are  compro- 
mises between  many  dim  mental  pictures  rather  than  the 
adequate  expression  of  a  single  mental  vision. 

Michelangelo  seems  to  have  had  a  definiteness  and  inten- 
sity of  mental  vision  far  beyond  the  normal  and  approaching 
to  the  vividness  of  actual  vision,  and  this  was  associated  with 
a  visual  memory  so  perfect  that  a  picture  once  outlined  to 
the  mind,  he  could  hold  it  fast  indefinitely.  The  result  was 
that  to  a  large  extent  he  was  able  to  dispense  with  prelimi- 
nary sketches  and  models  and  to  project  his  mental  vision  into 
the  stone  as  a  sufficient  guide  for  his  chisel.  As  he  did  all  the 
cutting  of  the  marble  himself,  he  not  only  dispensed  with  much 
preliminary  labor,  but  was  able  to  conceive  a  statue,  if  not 
more  naturaUstic,  at  least  far  more  unified  and  harmonious 
than  would  otherwise  have  been  possible.  It  was  by  virtue 
of  this  extraordinary  faculty  that  he  w^as  able  to  see  in  this 
misshapen  block  the  figure  which  so  completely  utilized  its 
possibilities. 

The  statue,  as  is  well  known,  represents  a  youth  in  the 
initial  act  of  throwing  a  stone  with  a  sling.  This  attitude  is 
unusual  and  often  misunderstood,  simply  because  the  action 
is  unusual  and  little  understood.  Learned  critics,  have  com- 
pletely misconstrued  it,  because  they  did  not,  like  Michel- 
angelo, watch  a  boy  throw  stones  with  a  sling.  To  analyze 
that  action  and  show  Michelangelo's  conformity  to  it,  would 
be  a  profitless  task.  Hardly  more  important  is  the  much 
mooted  question  whether  the  proportions  of  the  body  are  cor- 
rect. The  critic  may  again  be  counseled  to  measure,  as  the 
artist  did,  instead  of  guessing,  as  the  artist  almost  certainly 
did  not.  Michelangelo  never  hesitated  to  depart  from  nor- 
mal proportions  when  he  had  a  purpose  in  so  doing,  but  he 
seems  here  to  have  had  no  such  purpose,  and  it  is  doubtful  if 
he  so  departed.  The  artist's  mastery  of  the  science  of  the 
nude  is  confessedly  complete,  but  enthusiasm  on  the  part  of 


344  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

the  uninitiated  is  so  closely  akin  to  affectation  that  it  is  safer 
to  admire  in  silence. 

But  conceding  the  utmost  that  may  be  claimed  for  the 
perfection  of  this  figure,  what  of  it  ?  The  studio  will  smile 
superiorly  at  such  a  question.  Not  to  know  that  the  perfect 
rendering  of  the  human  figure  is  the  very  substance  of  art ! 
Indeed  !  But  if  the  mere  rendering  of  the  figure  is  art, 
Michelangelo,  at  least,  did  not  think  so.  Of  the  hundreds  of 
figures  which  we  have  from  his  hand,  scarce  one  lays  emphasis 
upon  the  figure  as  such.  Always  it  is  something  more,  some- 
thing done,  some  mood  suggested  by  attitude  or  act.  His 
figures  are  infinitely  perfect,  but  they  are  a  mere  language  for 
suggesting  other  and  higher  things.  Into  this  series  of  soul 
revealing  figures  the  David  scarcely  enters.  Beyond  the  per- 
fect rendering  of  the  figure  it  reveals  to  us  nothing  more 
significant  than  a  boy's  way  of  throwing  a  stone.  There  are  a 
score  of  nudes  in  the  Sistine  Ceiling  that  are  infinitely  greater 
art,  because  they  are  vehicles  of  great  spiritual  moods,  and 
not  mere  studies  of  figure. 

We  are  not  disparaging ;  we  are  explaining.  Michelangelo 
had  returned  to  the  most  technically  expert  audience  in  the 
world  with  fame  won  in  other  parts.  In  Florence  he  had 
served  his  apprenticeship,  and  now,  like  the  journeyman  of  the 
olden  trades,  he  had  returned  to  pass  his  examination  as  mas- 
ter, before  this  jury  of  his  peers.  The  David  was  a  test  sub- 
ject in  the  work  of  many  artists,  Donatello,  Verocchio,  and 
others.  The  David  is  his  demonstration  of  skill.  For  a  great 
revelation  of  prophecy  or  beauty  this  is  not  the  place.  The 
David  is  in  art  what  the  thesis  for  a  doctor's  degree  is  to  the 
great  literature  of  scholarship,  merely  a  demonstration  of 
skill. 

The  candidate  passed  the  examination.  The  David  in 
Florence,  like  the  Pieta  in  Rome,  established  the  sculptor's 
fame  upon  unshakable  foundations.  These  two  works  mark 
the  end  of  the  first  great  period  in  Michelangelo's  career. 


Art  in  the  School  of  Lorenzo  and  Savonarola     345 

They  show  the  culmination  of  his  skill,  the  complete  mastery 
of  the  technique  of  his  art.  They  do  not  convey  to  us  his 
great  message.  Thenceforth  it  is  no  longer  a  question  what 
this  man  can  do ;  it  is  only  a  question  what  he  will  choose  to 
do.     That  choice  was  forthwith  to  be  revealed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


There  are  few  more  striking  figures  in  the  history  of  this 
remarkable  time  than  JuUus  II  who  came  to  the  pontifical 
chair  in  1503.  It  is  impossible  for  the  dispassionate  student 
of  history  to  regard  him  with  approval,  or  to  justify  by  a  calm 
estimate  of  his  character  or  his  acts  the  claim  to  greatness 
which  it  is  none  the  less  impossible  to  withhold.  In  an 
age  when  learning  was  an  almost  universal  distinction  in 
the  higher  walks  of  ecclesiastical  and  private  life,  Julius 
had  neither  scholarship  nor  scholarly  ambitions.  A  munifi- 
cent patron  of  art,  he  seems  to  have  had  little  discrimina- 
tion, and  to  have  recognized  in  the  work  of  Michelangelo 
rather  its  titanic  than  its  spiritual  qualities.  A  man  of  action 
by  every  instinct  of  his  being,  his  action  was  usually  both 
ruthless  and  ill-considered  and  for  the  most  part  barren  of 
results.  His  ambitions  were  those  of  an  empire  builder,  but 
history  will  record  him  as  neither  a  great  conqueror  nor  a  true 
statesman.  None  the  less,  there  is  something  magnificent 
about  this  Titan  who  for  ten  years  occupied  the  center  of  this 
world  stage,  dwarfing  into  insignificance  all  other  figures  save 
one,  and  despite  all  protests  of  judgment  or  sympathy,  we 
call  him  the  Great  Pope.  Perhaps  he  gains  by  contrast  with 
other  popes  of  the  time,  with  the  unspeakable  Alexander,  the 
indolent  Leo,  or  the  cunning  and  ignoble  Paul.  Perhaps,  too, 
we  remember  chiefly  the  one  great  deed  to  his  credit.  It  is  to 
him  that  we  owe  the  Sistine  Ceiling. 

Michelangelo  probably  knew  the  pope  as  a  cardinal  in  the 
day  when  he  was  making  the  Pieta.    If  not,  the  Pieta  was 

346 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     347 

their  introduction.  When  Julius  came  to  the  papacy, 
Michelangelo  was  in  Florence,  putting  the  last  touches  upon 
the  great  David,  setting  the  seal  upon  the  sculptor's  skill 
and  waiting  for  the  artist's  inspiration.  The  head  of  Julius 
was  full  of  vast  projects  covering  every  department  of  showy 
human  achievement,  and  as  soon  as  he  got  round  to  the  sub- 
ject of  art,  he  summoned  Michelangelo  to  Rome.  An  inci- 
dental result  of  this  call  was  the  loss  to  us  of  Michelangelo's 
great  Battle  of  Pisa,  designed  for  the  Town  Hall  of  Florence, 
a  work  which  no  less  a  judge  than  Benvenuto  Cellini  declares 
to  have  far  surpassed  the  Sistine  Ceiling.  Our  slight  knowl- 
edge of  the  work,  and  still  more,  our  knowledge  of  Cellini's 
ideals,  leads  us  to  a  different  conclusion.  The  work  seems  to 
have  been  like  the  David,  a  figure  study,  this  time  of  infinite 
variety  and  unsurpassable  skill,  but  a  technical  rather  than  a 
spiritual  triumph.  This  was  the  thing  that  Cellini,  himself 
a  technician  and  only  a  technician,  was  able  to  appreciate. 
Much  as  we  must  regret  that  this  cartoon,  prepared  at  such 
vast  labor  and  displaying  the  resources  of  Michelangelo's 
art,  was  never  to  be  transferred  to  the  wall  where  we  could 
have  seen  it,  we  need  not  regret  the  call  to  Rome.  Michel- 
angelo listened  to  the  one  voice  that  could  stir  the  deepest 
chords  in  his  nature,  left  to  the  technical  connoisseurship  of 
Florence  the  body  of  his  art,  and  took  the  soul  of  it  to  Rome. 
Between  Michelangelo  and  JuUus  there  was  a  tempera- 
mental sympathy  founded  on  likeness  of  character  and  common 
need.  Both  were  men  of  terrific  passion,  men  who  knew  none 
of  the  tame  impulses  that  we  call  feelings,  but  were  swayed  by 
tempests  that  demand  a  stronger  word,  men  of  boundless 
energy,  capable  of  infinite  things  if  properly  directed,  but 
easily  breaking  over  the  barriers  of  personal  or  social  control. 
These  two  men  on  the  instant  realized  their  kinship,  and 
though  often,  almost  constantly,  in  conflict,  they  were  drawn 
irresistibly  together  again  by  their  common  consciousness  that 
true  sympathy  and  adequate  appreciation  were  to  be  found 


348  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

nowhere  else.  Never  able  to  get  along  with  each  other,  they 
were  never  able  to  get  along  without  each  other,  a  relation 
not  uncommon  in  this  world  to  spirits  isolated  by  the  great- 
ness of  their  powers.  It  is  one  of  the  uncompensated  trage- 
dies of  Michelangelo's  career  that  the  great  portrait  statue 
which  he  later  made  of  Julius,  to  decorate  the  portal  of  San 
Petronio  in  Bologna,  in  commemoration  of  the  conquest  of 
that  city  and  its  incorporation  into  the  Papal  States,  should 
have  been  an  object  of  political  detestation  rather  than  of 
artistic  appreciation  on  the  part  of  the  conquered  Bolognese, 
with  the  result  that  on  the  first  occasion,  which  came  all  too 
promptly,  it  was  recast  into  a  cannon  to  be  derisively  called 
Pope  Julius.  Never  was  a  subject  so  born  for  Michelangelo's 
portrayal  as  JuUus  II.  Never  was  an  artist  so  gifted  to  por- 
tray a  Julius  as  was  Michelangelo.  It  was  the  irony  of  fate 
that  the  Titan  of  St.  -Peter's  chair  should  have  been  handed 
down  to  us  by  the  serene  and  placid  Raphael. 

To  Michelangelo,  the  finished  technician,  the  pope  now  gave 
instructions  to  prepare  designs  for  his  tomb  to  be  erected  in 
St.  Peter's.  This  commission  appealed  to  him  beyond  meas- 
ure. It  was  in  every  way  congenial  to  his  temperament. 
He  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  powers,  and  his  imagination 
reached  out  into  the  illimitable.  It  was  apparent,  too,  that 
the  pope's  ambition  was  equally  unlimited,  and  that  he  desired 
the  utmost  reach  of  the  artist's  powers.  The  character  of 
the  pope,  thus  revealed  in  its  most  inspiring  aspect,  served 
to  fire  his  imagination.-  Michelangelo  rushed  to  the  work, 
and  in  a  short  time  prepared  a  sketch  which,  had  it  been  car- 
ried out,  would  have  dwarfed  all  other  works  of  its  kind  since 
time  began.  It  was  to  be  a  rectangular  architectural  struc- 
ture, detached  from  the  wall  so  as  to  be  seen  from  all  sides, 
a  thing  unknown  before  in  tombs  of  the  Renaissance.  Some 
idea  of  its  magnitude  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  its 
decoration  comprised  forty-nine  statues,  at  least  twelve  of 
them  of  heroic  size,  not  to  mention  reliefs  and  other  rich 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  Bis  Chapel     349 

decorative  details.  The  sketch  was  presented  to  Julius  and 
aroused  his  utmost  enthusiasm.  The  commission  was 
promptly  given,  and  Michelangelo  received  carte  blanche  to 
quarry  the  necessary  marble  in  Carrara.  Soon  the  quays  of 
the  Tiber  were  covered  with  huge  blocks  of  marble,  in  quan- 
tities which  amazed  spectators  but  added  to  the  pope's 
exultation.     Here  was  a  man  who  could  both  plan  and  do. 

Our  imagination  will  hardly  sufl&ce  to  follow  Michelangelo 
during  the  enthusiasm  of  the  next  few  months.  We  shall 
never  understand  these  momentous  days  until  we  realize  the 
inadequacy  of  our  experience  to  interpret  the  passions  of  such 
men.  Artist  and  patron,  either  might  have  said  to  their 
w^ondering  critics :  "And  all  thy  feelings  matched  with  mine, 
are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight  and  as  water  unto  wdne." 
Michelangelo's  enthusiasms  were  as  much  more  intense  than 
those  of  other  men  as  his  depressions  were  the  more  terri- 
ble when  the  reaction  came.  This  great  undertaking  was 
destined  to  bring  him  the  uttermost  extremes  of  both. 

The  work  on  the  tomb  went  steadily  forward,  imder  the 
tireless  energy  of  the  sculptor  and  the  sympathetic  eye  of 
the  pope.  His  visits  were  frequent,  even  to  the  extent  of  hav- 
ing a  special  entrance  to  Michelangelo's  premises  made  for 
the  purpose.  But  slowly  these  favoring  conditions  changed ; 
the  visits  ceased,  payments  were  delayed,  and  the  importimi- 
ties  of  the  embarrassed  sculptor  were  met  T^dth  coldness  and 
at  last  with  open  repulse.  Explanation  was  not  at  once 
forthcoming.  Only  later  did  Michelangelo  learn  that  dis- 
ease had  shaken  the  pontiff's  nerve,  that  superstition,  follow- 
ing in  its  train,  had  made  the  thought  of  the  tomb  a  specter, 
that  vast  and  ill-considered  projects  had  exhausted  the  papal 
resources,  and  finally  that  calumny  and  malice  had  marked 
the  sculptor  for  its  victim.  Julius  had  plenty  of  reasons  for 
his  waning  enthusiasm  if  not  for  his  coldness  and  insolence. 
These  reasons  Michelangelo  could  not  know  or  share,  and 
the  rebuff  stung  him  to  the  quick.      He  fled  incontinent  to 


350  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Florence,  outstripping  the  horseman  sent  to  overtake  him, 
and  once  safe  on  Florentine  soil,  refu:ing  the  summons  to 
return.  Not  until  the  government  of  Florence  begged  him  to 
yield  to  the  pope's  entreaties  to  save  the  Republic  from  war 
on  his  account,  did  Michelangelo  consent  to  make  his  peace 
with  the  pope  and  return,  not  to  the  work  on  the  tomb,  but  to 
another  and  less  welcome  task.  Surely  Julius  had  need  of 
Michelangelo. 

This  interruption  to  the  great  undertaking,  supposed  by  all 
to  be  but  temporary,  proved  permanent.  Five  plans  suc- 
ceeded one  another,  each  smaller  than  the  last,  and  it  finally 
ended  with  an  incredible  caricature  of  Michelangelo's  plan,  not 
in  St.  Peter's,  but  in  a  lesser  and  comparatively  unimportant 
church.  The  structure  of  the  tomb  is  beneath  criticism. 
The  forty-nine  statues  have  dwindled  to  eight,  of  which  but 
three  have  any  connection  with  the  great  sculptor,  and  but 
one  is  directly  from  his  hand.  The  other  five  are  totally  with- 
out merit,  and  the  effigy  of  the  pope  is  the  very  bathos  of  art. 
Even  so,  the  great  pope  is  not  buried  in  his  tomb,  but  in  a 
scarce  marked  grave  in  St.  Peter's. 

We  are  not  writing  a  history  of  either  Michelangelo  or  the 
pope,  and  we  should  follow  through  the  sorry  details  of  this 
''Tragedy  of  the  Tomb "  to  little  purpose.  We  are  concerned 
only  to  understand  the  message  that  he  began  to  convey  to 
us  in  this  happiest  moment  of  his  career.  That  message  was 
interrupted,  but  its  spirit  and  purport  are  perfect  and  com- 
plete. It  is  contained  in  two  works,  beyond  doubt  the 
finest  product  of  Michelangelo's  genius,  —  the  Moses  and  the 
Bound  Slave,  the  latter  now  in  the  Louvre  at  Paris. 

In  the  old  church  of  San  Pietro  in  Vincoli  (St.  Peter  in 
Chains),  appropriate  reminder  of  Michelangelo's  fettered 
genius,  is  the  tomb  of  the  great  Julius.  In  the  central  niche 
beneath  the  helpless  effigy  and  between  the  mildly  graceful 
figures  on  either  side,  sits  the  mighty  Moses  (C  451).  It  is 
one  of  several  statues  of  like  size  and  scope  designed  by  Michel- 


C  451,  Moses  (Detail,  Tomb  of  Pope  Julius  II).    S.  Pietro  in  Vincoli, 
Rome.    Michelangelo,  1475-1564.  * 


352  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


angelo  to  express  the  characteristics  of  the  great  pope.  What 
the  others  might  have  been  we  have  no  idea.  Certainly  the 
one  we  have  is  the  one  most  needful,  the  one  which  expresses 
the  characteristic  that  obscures  all  others  in  the  history  of 
the  great  pontiff.  But  we  will  not  read  this  meaning  into 
the  statue.    Let  us  read  it  out  of  it,  for  if  it  is  there,  we  may. 

The  statue  is  the  pitfall  of  the  mechanical  critic.  Despite 
its  tremendous  power  it  is  a  violation  of  many  of  the  ordinary 
rules  of  thumb.  The  first  thing  that  strikes  the  trained 
studio  observation  is  that  the  proportions  are  wrong.  The 
head,  for  instance,  is  all  too  small,  especially  the  length  from 
front  to  rear.  The  eyes  are  immense  and  sunk  in  great 
cavernous  sockets  that  are  startlingly  impressive.  The  nose 
is  large,  the  beard  extravagantly  long  and  profuse.  The 
bare  arms  are  those  of  a  giant.  The  draperies  drawn  up  over 
the  knee  are  in  ungraceful,  not  to  say  impossible  folds.  Con- 
demnation is  easy  to  those  to  whom  these  things  are  the  sub- 
stance of  art. 

But  why  should  these  things  be  the  substance  of  art? 
There  is,  of  course,  a  well  known  law  of  normal  proportion 
that  has  held  with  varying  regard  since  the  days  of  Poly- 
kleitos  —  the  width  of  the  middle  finger  a  unit  which  multi- 
plied by  specified  factors  will  give  us  the  dimension  of  every 
feature.  Attitudes  and  other  details  have  likewise  been 
formulated  and  the  whole  reduced  to  a  canon.  This  once 
done,  it  requires  but  little  practice  to  grind  out  statues  to 
rule.  But  what  is  the  result  of  all  this?  Is  it  not  per- 
fectly apparent  that  these  canonical  proportions,  attitudes, 
and  so  forth,  once  formulated  and  accepted,  art  itself  is- re- 
duced to  a  formula  ?  The  human  figure  thus  treated  becomes 
like  a  composite  photograph,  and  all  variations  are  elimi- 
nated by  this  doctrine  of  averages.  Art  becomes  the  apothe- 
osis of  the  commonplace.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Michelangelo 
knew  no  such  canon  and  it  is  in  his  deviation  from  the  normal 
that  as  often  as  not  we  find  the  secret  of  his  power. 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     353 

We  could  hardly  find  a  better  statue  to  illustrate  the  necessi- 
ties and  the  limitations  of  art.  As  we  look  at  this  statue  we 
are  impressed  by  a  single  thought  with  regard  to  which  no 
observer  is  ever  in  doubt.  The  titanic  figure,  the  alert  pos- 
ture, leaning  forward  as  though  about  to  spring  from  his  seat, 
one  foot  thrown  back  as  if  ready  for  instant  action,  the  head 
erect,  the  piercing  gaze  turned  upon  a  definite  object,  the 
garments  drawn  back  from  the  powerful  limbs,  everything 
unites  in  one  single  and  definite  impression.  -  The  figure  is 
instinct  with  a  mighty  pent  up  energy  that  is  ready  at  a 
moment's  notice  to  launch  into  fearful  assertion.  This  is 
the  characteristic  of  Julius  which  Michelangelo  sought  through 
this  figure  to  express.  It  is,  as  indicated  above,  the  charac- 
teristic that  history  has  largely  emphasized.  A  man  whose 
passions  were  at  every  moment  like  a  bomb  about  to  explode, 
with  an  energy,  colossal  though  destructive,  thus  we  know  him, 
and  thus  in  the  guise  of  Moses  he  here  appears.  The  fear- 
ful energies  of  his  frame  are  not  restrained  by  reflection.  They 
are  ready  to  be  released  by  the  touch  of  a  hair  trigger.  So 
Julius  was  always,  and  to  all  who  knew  him. 

Now  how  does  Michelangelo  succeed  in  giving  us  this 
impression?  First  of  all,  of  course,  by  the  power  of  the 
figure,  and  then,  obviously,  by  the  attitude  as  well,  by  the 
fact  that  he  does  not  lean  back  in  his  chair  restfully,  but  that 
he  sits  erect,  fully  energized,  all  his  forces  completely  in 
hand.  But  all  that  could  easily  have  been  dulled  or  coun- 
teracted by  a  different  treatment  of  the  head.  It  is  per- 
fectly possible  in  life  for  a  man  of  action  to  have  a  noble, 
philosophic  brow.  We  discern  his  character,  not  by  his 
brow,  but  by  his  action,  which  is  patent  to  all  men.  But  in 
sculpture  we  have  no  such  resource.  The  man  cannot  act, 
and  to  choose  a  momentary  phase  of  some  rapidly  evolving- 
action  is  always  weak,  inadequate,  and  mistaken.  No,  in 
sculpture,  where  everything  is  static  and  dominated  by  a  vast 
repose  that  inheres  in  the  marble  itself,  we  must  resort  to 


354  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

other  means.  If  we  give  our  statue  the  philosophic  brow, 
the  lack  of  motion  and  of  all  real  action  will  shift  the  whole 
emphasis,  and  the  impression  will  not  be  that  of  a  man  of 
action  but  of  a  man  of  reflection  with  which  we  generally 
associate  features  of  this  kind.  In  sculpture  we  must  be 
free  to  emphasize  as  exigencies  may  require.  This  Michel- 
angelo has  unhesitatingly  done.  Realist  as  he  is,  in  treating 
details  of  any  kind  that  are  not  essential  to  his  purpose,  he 
will  unhesitatingly  modify  proportion  or  other  factor  in  the 
interest  of  one  paramount  suggestion  4:hat  he  has  to  give.  If 
he  wishes  to  suggest  reflection,  he  will  exaggerate  those 
features  from  which  we  are  accustomed  to  take  that  sug- 
gestion. The  brow  would  be  higher  and  the  face  more  dreamy 
than  was  the  fact  in  life.  Witness  a  modern  sculptor's  at- 
tempt in  the  Last  Days  of  Napoleon  in  the  great  palace  of 
Versailles.  But  if  on  the  other  hand  he  wishes  to  express 
action  sprung  from  sensation,  with  almost  nothing  of  inter- 
vening reflection,  he  will  do  exactly  the  reverse. 

The  features  that  suggest  reflection  must  be  minimized  and 
those  that  supply  sensation,  the  mainspring  of  action,  must 
be  made  paramount.  Hence  the  small  size  of  the  head,  or 
rather,  the  upper  portion  of  the  head,  in  Michelangelo's 
statue,  a  device  that  he  resorts  to  in  other  cases  for  precisely 
the  same  purpose.  And  hence,  in  like  manner,  the  amazing 
prominence  given  to  the  organs  of  sense,  the  piercing  eyes 
that  look  you  through  and  through,  the  prominent  nose,  the 
heavy,  passionate  lips,  the  face  that  is  instinct  with  passion, 
but  from  which  almost  every  trace  of  philosophic  calm  has 
vanished.  The  relative  exaggeration  of  the  muscular  frame 
contributes  to  the  same  end.  He  is  a  giant  whose  energies 
are  ready  for  instant  assertion,  and  from  whose  senses  comes 
inevitably  the  impetus  to  that  assertion. 

This  free  playing  with  the  figure  is  merely  a  phase  of  the 
great  process  of  idealism  which  is  the  very  soul  of  art.  There 
b  no  point  in  making  pictures  and  statues  of  things  that  are 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     355 

about  us,  just  as  they  are  about  us,  with  no  more  meaning  and 
no  more  inspiration.  Clever  copying  is  but  a  test  of  artisan's 
skill.  The  camera  does  it  better  than  the  artist  at  his  best. 
No,  the  function  of  art  is  to  give  us  ideas,  and  ideas  worth  the 
giving,  ideas  that  life  gives  rarely  and  in  broken  bits,  and  that 
the  artist  gathers  up,  interprets  and  transfigures  by  his  excep- 
tional power.  To  accomplish  this  purpose,  the  artist  is  free 
to  use  any  means.  Nature  lays  no  taboo  upon  her  forms. 
It  is  as  legitimate  to  leave  out  or  minimize  a  feature  as  it  is 
in  painting  a  landscape  to  omit  an  unnecessary  tree.  The 
one  question  is,  can  the  modification  be  made  so  as  to  convey 
the  greater  meaning  and  not  merely  to  challenge  attention  to 
it  as  an  oversight  or  a  mutilation?  This  test  Michelangelo 
was  assuredly  able  to  meet. 

But  our  lesson  learned,  let  us  not  hasten  away  from  the 
spell  of  this  great  creation.  To  analyze  is,  after  all,  not  the 
whole  of  understanding.  If  we  are  fortunate  enough  to  go 
to  the  church  when  the  organ  is  playing  in  the  deep  bay  oppo- 
site, the  vast  harmony  swelling  through  the  mighty  arches  and 
evoking  that  higher  sensibility,  that  nobler  mood  in  which 
sympathy  with  these  great  creations  is  possible,  then,  first  of 
all  perhaps,  something  of  the  grandeur  of  Michelangelo's 
thought  will  dawn  upon  us.  The  great  eyes  will  look  out 
upon  us  until  we  quail  before  their  terrible  penetration ;  the 
vast  passion  with  which  the  body  is  instinct  will  seem  ready 
to  launch  itself  forth  with  awe-inspiring  fury.  The  Greeks 
of  old  pictured  a  god  who  hurled  the  thunderbolt  and  shattered 
the  oak  beneath.  We  wonder  sometimes  in  what  guise  he 
appeared  to  their  imagination.  They  have  given  us  their 
vision  in  some  of  the  fairest  of  their  works,  but  two  thousand 
years  must  pass  and  they  must  wait  for  a  Christian  to  give  us 
the  mind  and  thought  of  the  terrible  Zeus.  No  hurler  of  the 
thunderbolt  he !  He  has  but  to  turn  his  omnipotent  gaze 
toward  the  objects  that  he  fain  would  smite,  and  the  earth 
must  melt  and  man  must  quail  in  their  presence.     There  is 


356  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


in  all  the  world  no  statue,  no  work  of  art  like  the  Moses.  Its 
superhuman  energy,  its  absolute  unambiguity,  the  infinite 
daring  of  the  artist's  genius,  the  unwontedness  of  his  thought, 
all  put  it  in  a  class  by  itself  and  lift  it  to  a  place  to  which  our 
minds  in  their  highest  flights  but  seldom  attain.  To  the  rou- 
tine spirit  it  is  a  blunder,  to  the  petty  man  it  is  a  mystery,  but 
to  all  it  is  a  work  of  superhuman  power. 

Michelangelo's  original  design  involved  the  use  of  a  large 
number  of  decorative  figures,  seven  or  more  of  which  were 
begun  and  two  carried  approximately  to  completion.  Later 
plans  first  lessened  the  number  of  these  figures  and  then 
eliminated  them  altogether.  The  two  most  nearly  completed 
were  given  to  a  citizen  of  France,  which  country  now  cherishes 
them  among  the  chief  treasures  of  her  incomparable  collection. 
The  others  were  built  into  an  absurd  grotto  by  degenerate 
Florence,  from  which  ignominy  they  have  but  recently  been 
rescued  to  honor  the  collection  of  the  Accademia.  It  is  with 
one  of  the  Paris  figures  (C  452)  that  we  are  chiefly  concerned. 
It  is  the  figure  of  a  beautiful  youth,  nude  save  for  the  band 
around  the  chest  which  holds  him  prisoner.  The  eyes  are 
closed  and  the  attitude  expressive  of  conscious  helplessness, 
and  an  acquiescence  which  is  as  devoid  of  hope  as  it  is  free 
from  pusillanimity.  To  many,  the  suggestion  is  that  of  the 
passing  of  the  spirit  in  death,  and  the  name.  Dying  Youth, 
alternates  with  that  of  the  Bound  Slave  as  a  popular  designa- 
tion. The  latter  is  in  one  respect  infelicitous,  for  of  all  possi- 
ble suggestions,  that  of  serviHty  is  most  remote.  The  youth 
is  of  noblest  mould,  and  his  nobility  abates  not  a  tittle  in  his 
moment  of  self  effacement. 

Two  interpretations  of  these  figures  have  come  down  to  us, 
either  acceptable  enough  and  of  secondary  importance.  The 
one  is  that  these  ''bound  slaves"  represent  the  conquered 
provinces  which  Julius,  the  creator  of  the  Papal  States,  had 
constrained  under  his  sway.  If  so,  the  artist,  intent  always 
upon  the  deeper  experiences  of  the  human  spirit,  suggests  in- 


C  452,  The  Bound  Slave.    Louvre,  Paris. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


358  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


finitely  better  the  pathos  of  perished  liberty  than  the  glory  of 
conquering  achievement.  That  these  conquered  provinces 
were  to  be  symbolized  upon  the  monument,  according  to  one 
of  its  designs,  is  certain,  and  whether  this  figure  was  destined 
for  this  purpose  or  not,  we  may  be  certain  that  the  spirit  of 
the  design  would  have  been  the  same  and  would  have  justi- 
fied our  inference.  More  probably,  however,  this  is  one  of  the 
*' dying  youths"  intended  to  represent  the  arts  as  dying  with 
the  death  of  their  great  patron.  Such  a  purpose  it  perfectly 
serves,  with  its  matchless  beauty,  its  unresisting  hopelessness, 
and  its  divine  pathos.  In  all  this  it  perfectly  embodies  the 
theme  which  henceforth  unfailingly  characterizes  Michel- 
angelo's noblest  creations.  That  theme  is  pathos,  expressed 
through  more  than  human  beauty,  and  perfectly  but  nobly 
submissive  to  a  higher  will. 

Nothing  could  be  more  instructive  than  to  compare  this 
work  with  the  David.  The  latter  is  a  perfect  study  of  the 
human  figure,  a  realistic  interpretation  of  a  commonplace 
boyish  action.  It  is  charged  with  no  great  feeling,  and  sug- 
gests none,  unless  to  those  who  are  absorbed  in  problems  of  the 
craft  or  awed  by  its  vast  fame.  This  is  sculpture.  The 
other  is  not  a  true  study  of  the  human  figure.  The  beauty  is 
more  than  human,  the  detail  subdued,  and  the  attitude  freely 
strained  beyond  the  humanly  possible,  to  suggest  that  pathos 
which  in  beauty  and  in  depth  of  emotion  passes  all  experience. 
This  is  art.  It  may  be  well  here  to  recall  the  words  of  per- 
haps the  most  sympathetic  of  Michelangelo's  interpreters,  a 
mind  which  like  every  true  seer,  recognized  the  unapproach- 
able supremacy  of  Greek  art,  and  yet  wrote  in  all  calm  of  this 
figure:  ''This  is  the  most  beautiful  statue  that  I  know;  and 
when  I  say  this,  I  recall  all  the  most  beautiful  works  of  the 
Greeks." 

Powerful  as  are  these  two  statues,  they  give  no  conception 
of  the  effect  which  the  tomb  as  such  would  have  produced. 
We  must  imagine  the  mighty  Moses,  with  other  similar  statues, 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     359 


placed  in  great  niches  which  were  the  commanding  features 
of  the  tomb.  Instinct  with  Hfe  and  power,  they  were  to 
translate  to  our  thought  the  character  of  the  living  pontiff. 
Between  these  niches  and  in  front  of  the  pilasters  or  but- 
tresses which  divided  them,  were  to  be  these  dying  youths 
whose  expiring  Hfe  suffused  with  infinite  pathos  this  memorial 
of  the  pontiff's  death.  These  figures  expressed  in  a  far  higher 
and  intenser  manner  the  idea  of  mourning,  ordinarily  ex- 
pressed by  bier  and  pall,  by  bowed  head  and  shadowed  face 
in  the  conventional  memorials  to  the  dead.  Only  slowly 
and  imperfectly  can  the  imagination  picture  the  vast  design 
on  which  Michelangelo  had  so  completely  set  his  heart  that 
all  later  commissions  seemed  unworthy,  and  the  Sistine 
Ceiling  "a  frivolous  work." 

The  reconciHation  between  the  pope  and  Michelangelo  and 
the  return  of  the  latter  to  Rome,  resulted  in  a  new  commission 
and  a  new  promise  on  Michelangelo's  part.  The  Sistine 
Ceiling  was  to  be  ''repaired."  The  working  of  the  com- 
mission is  interesting  and,  in  the  light  of  subsequent  events, 
slightly  humorous.  To  set  Michelangelo  to  repair  the  work  of 
an  earlier  painter  illustrates  how  imperfectly  Pope  Julius 
realized  the  task  or  understood  the  man.  As  a  personality  he 
knew  and  prized  him,  but  of  his  art  he  understood  little  enough. 
There  were  few  things  that  Julius  understood  less  than  art. 
It  is  the  more  surprising,  therefore,  that  we  owe  to  his  per- 
sistent purpose  the  completeness  and  integrity  of  this,  the 
world's  greatest  work. 

The  commission  was  most  unwelcome  to  Michelangelo  and 
the  promise  w^as  given  only  after  every  resource  of  protest 
and  evasion  had  failed.  He  urged  that  he  was  not  a 
painter,  which  was  true ;  that  he  wished  to  go  on  with  the 
other  work,  which  was  more  than  true.  He  might  even 
have  added  as  on  another  occasion  he  did,  that  he  disliked 
painting  and  thought  it  an  inferior  art.  All  to  no  avail; 
nothing  would  turn  Julius  from  his  purpose,  and  his  will  was 


360  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

not  one  to  be  long  resisted.  The  commission  can  be  excused 
only  on  the  general  ground  of  the  confusion  of  the  arts  in 
that  day.  Specialization  was  not  the  ideal  of  the  time,  as 
with  us.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  distinctly  a  thing  to  be 
avoided.  Many-sidedness  and  all  around  completeness  was 
the  ideal  to  which  a  few  great  minds  surpassingly  attained. 
Nothing  better  illustrates  the  possibilities  of  an  ideal  persist- 
ently and  widely  cherished  than  the  ability  of  this  time  to 
produce  men  so  many-sided  as  Michelangelo,  Leonardo,  and 
Raphael.  Having  abandoned  this  idea  of  human  develop- 
ment we  do  not  remotely  approximate  to  these  individual 
attainments.  But  aside  from  this,  the  age  had  not  as  yet 
diflferentiated  painting  and  sculpture  in  their  thought.  They 
were  different,  of  course,  and  made  by  a  different  process,  but 
that  these  differences  affected  their  themes  and  their  inmost 
spirit  was  a  fact  not  grasped.  An  artist  was  an  artist,  and 
might  be  assigned  to  this  or  that  branch  of  art  as  conven- 
ience dictated.  The  result  justified  the  theory  in  this  case, 
but  Michelangelo  perceived  far  more  than  his  contemporaries 
the  falseness  of  the  theory.  He  was  a  sculptor  born  if  there 
ever  was  one,  and  interpreting  painting  in  the  terms  of  sculp- 
ture, as  such  a  man  must  do,  came  to  define  it  as  essentially 
false  or  sham  sculpture  and  thus  relatively  unworthy.  This 
is,  of  course,  a  total  misconception  of  painting.  Sculpture  is 
a  study  in  forms.  Painting,  with  color  as  its  medium,  is 
primarily  a  study  of  spaces.  It  is  the  lights  and  shadows  that 
fill  a  space  that  are  the  great  thing  in  any  great  picture,  though 
few  painters  have  ever  realized  this  as  did  Rembrandt.  To 
leave  the  space  a  mere  void,  with  the  merciless,  untempered 
light  of  day  emphasizing  its  emptiness,  and  to  carefully  work 
out  forms  of  no  matter  what  in  this  space,  will  never  make  a 
picture.  It  is  only  sham  sculpture,  as  Michelangelo  not  un- 
naturally defined  it.  Such  knowledge  as  we  have  of  Michel- 
angelo's perished  work,  the  Battle  of  Pisa,  perfectly  illus- 
trates this  conception.    As  seen  in  the  copy,  doubtless  much 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     361 

enfeebled,  of  a  contemporary,  it  is  simply  a  mass  of  human 
figures  caught  in  every  conceivable  attitude,  drawn  doubtless 
with  great  power  but  wholly  sculptural  in  conception.  There 
is  nothing  about  them,  no  atmosphere,  no  light  and  shadow, 
none  of  that  mellowing  and  mood-creating  environment  which 
is  the  very  soul  of  painting.  This  Michelangelo  did  not 
know ;  the  Itahans  did  not  know  it.  As  we  shall  see,  it  rested 
with  him  more  than  with  almost  any  other  to  discover  it.  A 
glance  at  one  of  his  early  paintings  in  comparison  with  such 
a  painting  as  Andrea  del  Sarto's  Madonna  of  the  Harpies,  is 
most  instructive.  As  an  artist  Andrea  cannot  be  mentioned 
in  the  same  breath  with  Michelangelo,  but  as  a  painter  he  is 
infinitely  superior,  understanding  the  mystery  of  light  and 
shadow  as  an  environment  for  his  subdued  and  suggestive 
studies  in  form. 

We  may  carry  the  comparison  further  and  still  to  Michel- 
angelo's disadvantage.  Let  us  notice  his  youthful  work  known 
as  the  Doni  Madonna  (C  loi),  more  properly  speaking,  the 
Holy  Family.  It  is  a  round  picture,  in  the  center  of  which 
is  arranged  a  group  of  the  Holy  Family.  These  splendid 
figures  are  worthy  of  Michelangelo's  chisel  at  his  best.  Noth- 
ing can  exceed  the  beauty  of  their  modelled  forms,  and  the 
grouping  is  a  masterly  study  in  that  massy  compactness  and 
stabiUty  to  which  we  have  referred.  A  sculptor  has  charac- 
terized it  as  a  ''  superb  composition."  Yet  a  glance  will  suffice 
to  show  that  as  a  painter's  composition  it  is  a  total  failure. 
If  such  a  group  were  executed  in  sculpture  and  set  up  in  a 
large  hall  or  in  the  open,  it  would  leave  little  to  be  desired. 
But  set  it  in  a  round  frame,  it  is  at  odds  with  everything.  The 
artist  seems  to  have  reaUzed  this  when  his  group  was  finished 
and  to  have  pondered  what  he  should  use  to  fill  in  the  vacant 
spaces,  and  being  firmly  convinced,  as  he  was  wont  to  say, 
that  landscape  had  no  place  in  art,  and  being  furthermore, 
interested  at  the  time  in  the  study  of  the  nude,  he  has  taken 
from  his  sketch  book  or  from  his  brain  numerous  nude  figures 


C  101,  The  Doni  Madonna.    Uffizi,  Florence. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     363 

totally  irrelevant  to  his  subject,  which  are  scattered  promiscu- 
ously into  an  arid  background.  Nothing  could  be  more 
inappropriate.  They  are  not  connected  with  the  theme  nor 
yet  with  the  composition.  They  are  merely  convenient 
material  for  padding  where  there  ought  to  have  been  no  occa- 
sion for  padding.  Michelangelo  had  not  learned  that  a 
painter  must  work  to  his  frame,  and  that  if  the  frame  has  an 
aesthetic  character  of  its  own,  as  any  frame  has  which  departs 
symmetrically  from  the  simple  rectangular,  then  it  becomes  so 
much  the  more  exacting.  The  lines  within  the  picture  must 
harmonize  with  the  lines  that  bound  it,  as  the  song  must  fit 
the  accompaniment.  He  has  painted  his  picture  as  though  he 
were  making  sculpture,  and  then  waked  up  too  late  to  the  fact 
that  his  round  frame  was  there  to  be  reckoned  with.  Com- 
pare the  totally  different  arrangement  of  Botticelli  in  his 
Madonna  of  the  Magnificat  (B  177),  or  Raphael  in  his 
Madonna  of  the  Chair  (C  188),  works  whose  charm  largely 
inheres,  however  unconsciously,  in  the  music  of  line,  the 
harmony  between  picture  and  frame.  No,  Michelangelo 
does  not  know  the  essentials  of  a  picture  as  regards  either 
arrangement  or  subject-matter.  He  compromises  and  paints 
like  a  sculptor.  That  he  was  conscious  of  his  limitation  is 
much  to  his  credit.  That  he  imputed  something  of  that  limi- 
tation to  the .  art  which  he  did  not  understand  is  natural. 
But  it  was  not  the  less  a  handicap  as  he  entered  upon  the 
stupendous  task  of  painting  before  him. 

But  we  are  by  no  means  at  the  end  of  Michelangelo's  Umi- 
tations.  He  was  working  for  the  most  ambitious  of  men, 
and  as  Julius  felt  his  health  failing  and  realized  that  his  time 
was  short,  his  ambition  to  see  the  work  which  more  and  more 
loomed  large  in  his  imagination  as  the  personality  of  the  artist 
cast  its  spell  about  him,  was  redoubled.  The  artist,  working 
always  at  a  furious  rate,  doing  four  days'  work  in  one,  still 
worked  too  slowly  for  the  masterful  spirit  whose  one  thought 
seems  to  have  been  —  should  he  perchance  die  and  not  see  the 


364  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Sistine  Ceiling  ?  The  chronicler  tells  us  that  the  work  was 
finished  in  twenty-two  months,  a  work  which  in  extent  would 
easily  be  accounted  ten  years'  work  of  the  most  industrious 
painter.  There  are  critics  who  doubt  this  statement.  One 
has  even  ventured,  by  studying  the  patches  of  plaster,  assum- 
ing that  each  one  stands  for  a  day's  work,  to  form  his  own 
estimate  of  the  time  required,  and  concludes  that  the  work 
occupied  some  three  years.  Grant  what  credence  we  may 
to  this  most  doubtful  basis  of  estimate,  the  fact  still  remains 
that  the  work  was  rushed  through  with  furious  haste,  allowing 
the  minimum  of  time  to  the  artist  to  study  his  problem  and 
master  the  technique  of  this  unwonted  art.  If  to  all  this  we 
add  the  fact  handed  down  by  plausible  tradition  that  the 
commission  to  paint  the  Sistine  CeiHng  was  granted  to 
Michelangelo  at  the  instance  of  his  enemies,  we  reach  the 
Umit  of  imaginable  handicap.  If  there  is  one  thing  more  than 
another  that  cannot  be  extorted  from  men  against  their  will, 
it  is  art.  If  there  is  one  man  that  cannot  be  driven,  it  is  the 
artist.  He  must  choose  his  theme,  his  own  time,  his  own  mood, 
his  own  way,  if  the  work  is  to  be  in  any  sense  the  vehicle  of  a 
higher  sympathy.  Yet  all  these  conditions  were  lacking. 
Michelangelo  was  working  for  a  tyrant  who  knew  nothing 
about  art,  surrounded  by  an  environment  that  was  hostile 
and  treacherous,  executing  a  work  under  absolute  protest. 
His  genius  has  none  the  less  surmounted  all  obstacles  and  given 
us  the  masterpiece  both  of  his  time  and  of  his  art. 

It  is  perhaps  in  order  to  explain  briefly  this  tradition  of 
hostility.  Michelangelo  was  certainly  one  of  the  least  loved 
of  men,  and  that  too  in  spite  of  his  undoubted  probity  and  his 
patient  kindness  under  discouraging  conditions.  Popularity, 
however,  is  seldom  based  on  these  substantial  qualities.  It  is 
a  matter  of  graciousness  and  tact,  qualities  in  which  the  great 
artist  was  lamentably  lacking.  He  knew  nothing  of  those  little 
arts  by  which  we  temper  the  harshness  of  truth  in  social  rela- 
tions.   He  praised  when  truth  compelled  and  blamed  where 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     365 

truth  required,  a  very  imperfect  program  of  social  procedure. 
Added  to  this  was  an  almost  total  oversight  of  social  conven- 
tions. When  Charles  V  visited  Rome,  he  not  only  paid  him 
the  honor  of  visiting  him  in  his  studio,  but  called  out  as  he 
entered,  "Keep  on  your  cap."  \Vhen  an  astonished  courtier 
later  asked  the  reason  for  this  unprecedented  honor,  the  em- 
peror good-humoredly  replied,  "Oh,  he  would  have  kept  it  on 
anyway."  It  was  easier  for  emperors  to  overlook  such  slights 
than  for  lesser  men.  There  were  few  whom  he  did  not  wound, 
and  recognized  genius  was  no  guarantee  against  dislike. 

But  there  were  other  reasons  for  this  opposition.  Bramante, 
one  of  the  ablest  and  most  unscrupulous  men  of  his  time,  was 
in  constant  fear  lest  Michelangelo  should  disclose  certain 
damaging  facts  that  were  known  to  him  and  jeopardize  his 
position  with  the  pope.  It  behooved  him  to  get  Michelangelo 
out  of  Rome  if  possible.  To  all  of  these  reasons  were  added  the 
common  reason  of  envy  of  this  man  who  enjoyed  the  favor  of 
Julius,  and  a  general  desire  that  the  pope's  interest  and  largess 
might  be  transferred  to  undertakings  by  which  others  than 
Michelangelo  might  profit.  What  with  the  astuteness  of 
Bramante  as  an  organizer  of  discontent  and  the  loveableness 
of  Raphael  who  became  the  natural  rallying  point  of  the  oppo- 
sition, Michelangelo's  interests  were  seriously  menaced  through 
a  long  period  of  years. 

One  more  fact  should  be  noted  before  we  venture  with 
Michelangelo  into  the  great  Chapel  (C  104).  The  domes  and 
vaults  of  the  Italian  architecture  had  presented  difliculties  to 
the  decorator  from  the  first.  Even  the  mosaicists  had  felt  these 
difficulties.  They  show  obvious  hesitation  in  inserting  figures 
in  domes  and  apses,  whose  tilted  surfaces  throw  the  figures  out 
of  their  natural  position.  On  the  whole,  however,  they  ac- 
cepted the  situation.  But  with  the  more  realistic  tendencies 
of  the  Renaissance  the  objection  to  these  incUned  surfaces 
increased.  Figures"  represented  at  full  length  upon  these 
leaning  walls  seemed  leaning  and  about  to  fall.    Not  until  the 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     367 

fifteenth  century  was  a  device  hit  upon  that  seems  to  have 
met  with  instant  welcome  by  the  decorative  painters.  One 
Melozzo  from  the  Httle  town  of  ForU  in  Eastern  Italy  was  em- 
ployed to  paint  the  great  church  of  the  Apostles  in  Rome,  a 
church  later  unfortunately  doomed  to  destruction.  Upon  the 
domed  or  vaulted  ceiling  of  this  church  he  represented  apostles 
and  angels  in  a  decidedly  new  way.  He  seems  to  have  rea- 
soned something  as  follows:  ''Upon  an  upright  wall  I  can  by 
foreshortening  make  a  figure  seem  to  lean  or  fall  backward. 
Why  then  can  I  not  upon  a  wall  that  leans  forward,  by  means 
of  foreshortening,  make  a  figure  that  seems  to  stand  up- 
right?" This  he  forthwith  proceeded  to  do.  The  visitor 
to  the  Sistine  Chapel  should  first  thread  the  devious  passage- 
way into  the  Sacristy  of  St.  Peter's  and  there  dwell  long  and 
carefully  upon  the  fragments  of  Melozzo's  painting.  There 
are  heads  of  apostles  and  figures  of  angels,  all  curiously  difficult 
in  position  and  seeming  to  fall  backward,  but  perfectly  adapted 
to  the  purpose  above  mentioned. 

When  Melozzo's  w^ork  was  done,  a  new  epoch  had  been 
ushered  in.  No  matter  how  badly  a  wall  leaned  or  what  its 
irregularities,  by  proper  application  of  foreshortening  the 
figures  seemed  to  stand  upright.  As  we  gaze  upon  these 
fragments  we  can  easily  see  the  significance  of  this  discovery. 
We  do  not  so  easily  see  its  limitations,  but  Melozzo's  suc- 
cessors were  quick  to  realize  and  illustrate  them.  The  new 
opportunity  offered  proxdded  a  trap  for  the  unwary.  Melozzo 
is  quickly  followed  by  Mantegna,  perhaps  working  out  the 
problem  for  himself  and  coming  again  to  the  same  result.  In  a 
dome  at  Mantua  he  has  painted  a  raiUng  round  the  base  of  the 
dome  inside,  and  figures  standing  behind  the  balustrade  and 
leaning  over,  looking  down  at  you,  or  otherwise  engaged  ^vith 
an  ingenuousness  that  is  almost  deceptive.  Correggio  at 
Parma  took  up  the  scheme  and  went  farther,  completely  forget- 
ting the  Umitations  of  all  such  representations.  It  had  now 
become  perfectly  possible  to  put  figures  anywhere  on  the  ceil- 


368  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

ing  and  have  them  stand  upright,  but  only,  of  course,  with 
this  Umitation,  that  they  must  be  seen  from  below,  neither 
the  natural  nor  the  dignified  point  of  view.  In  his  latest 
work  in  the  Cathedral  of  Parma,  the  Virgin  rises  to  heaven 
accompanied  by  myriads  of  the  angeUc  host,  and  the  low- 
vaulted  dome  of  the  Cathedral  opens  out  with  a  marvellous 
vista  of  cloud  and  sky  that  seems  to  lead  the  eye  up  into 
the  very  heaven  itself.  The  heavenly  host  soar  upward, 
the  uppermost  figures  mere  hints  in  cloudy  dimness,  but  the 
lower  figures  scarce  beginning  the  ascent.  The  whole  con- 
ception is  a  beautiful  one,  but  Correggio  hardly  realized  the 
impression  which  he  was  certain  to  produce.  When  the  work 
was  done  and  the  patron  for  whom  it  was  executed  gazed  at 
last  upon  its  Uncovered  glories,  he  is  said  to  have  remarked 
unsympathetically,  but  with  not  a  little  justice,  that  to  him 
it  resembled  a  fricassee  of  frogs.  The  mass  of  dangling  legs 
was  the  thing  that  first  met  his  gaze,  —  the  thing  that  has  first 
met  the  gaze  of  every  observer  since. 

The  ceiling  of  the  Sistine  Chapel  presented  a  similar 
problem.  The  Chapel  is  a  long  and  narrow  room  sur- 
rounded by  enormously  high  walls  which  are  covered  with 
a  shallow  barrel  vault.  The  round  arched  windows  are 
placed  so  high  that  they  cut  into  the  dropping  edges  of 
this  vault  and  are  covered  by  little  cross  vaults  which  in- 
tersect with  the  main  vault  in  small  V-shaped  patterns,  leav- 
ing the  broad  central  expanse  of  the  ceiling  unbroken  by 
any  architectural  feature.  These  curved  surfaces  could  not, 
in  this  age,  be  decorated  otherwise  than  with  foreshortened 
figures  of  the  kind  described.  Perhaps  the  severest  test 
to  which  the  painter  in  this  case  could  be  subjected  lay  in  this 
same  problem  of  foreshortening.  It  was  here  that  Michel- 
angelo's enemies  certainly  hoped  for  his  discomfiture.  As  a 
sculptor  he  would  not  and  could  not  know  anything  of  these 
things.  The  sculptor  does  not  foreshorten  except  in  pictorial 
relief.     He  makes  real  forms,  leaving  the  eye  to  foreshorten 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     369 

as  it  beholds  these  forms  from  various  points  of  view.  Would 
this  sculptor  be  able  to  deal  with  this  problem  of  foreshorten- 
ing met  by  Melozzo  and  carried  to  such  extent  by  later 
painters?  There  was  every  reason  to  believe  he  would  not. 
It  was  here  precisely  that  Michelangelo's  enemies  reckoned 
without  their  host.  We  have  mentioned  in  an  earUer  chapter 
his  amazing  power  of  visualization.  Probably  no  other 
painter  could  have  worked  upon  a  scaffolding  near  the  ceiUng 
where  only  a  fraction  of  the  figure  was  visible  at  a  time,  and 
at  the  same  time  have  posted  himself  in  imagination  down  in 
the  farther  corner  or  at  the  entrance  door,  and  carried  with 
him  a  perfect  mental  picture  of  his  work.  Yet  this  was  easy 
and  ine\dtable  for  Michelangelo.  The  problem  of  foreshorten- 
ing is  one  of  the  most  difficult  in  the  painter's  repertory.  With 
Michelangelo,  thus  endowed,  it  was  scarcely  a  problem  at 
all.  The  result  is  that  the  ceiling  is  the  most  remarkable  series 
of  studies  in  foreshortening  that  can  be  found  in  the  work 
of  any  artist  or  any  time.  It  is  here  that  the  sophisticated 
and  technical  consciousness  of  the  age  most  quickly  recognized 
his  skill  and  proclaimed  his  triumph.  It  is  here  that  we  will 
recognize  their  judgment  and  pass  on. 

The  work  having  been  decided  upon,  Michelangelo  made  the 
usual  preparations.  He  asked  the  Pope  to  have  a  staging 
built,  and  the  Pope,  with  possibly  unconscious  humor,  com- 
manded his  arch-enemy,  Bramante,  to  construct  the  staging, 
which  was  done  by  suspending  the  structure  from  the  timbers 
of  the  roof,  the  cables  used  passing  through  holes  in  the 
ceiling.  Michelangelo  protested  that  this  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  complete  the  work,  to  which  Bramante,  perhaps 
not  unwilling  to  embarrass  the  artist,  replied  that  the  staging 
could  be  supported  in  no  other  way.  With  his  accustomed 
resourcefulness,  Michelangelo  dismissed  the  architect  and 
reconstructed  the  staging,  supporting  it  by  pressure  against 
the  side  walls,  in  accordance  with  the  principle  used  ever  since, 
but  unknown  until  that  time.    He  expected  farther  to  lighten 


370  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

his  labors  by  employing  helpers  in  painting  the  routine  parts 
of  the  work,  the  architectural  setting,  and  so  forth,  which 
involved  the  most  ordinary  proficiency.  But  his  exacting 
nature,  which  could  never  cooperate  or  build  on  other  men's 
foundations,  could  not  cooperate  even  here.  Their  work  was 
unsatisfactory,  and  after  several  attempts,  Michelangelo  tore 
off  the  plaster  they  had  covered,  laid  new,  and  executed  the 
work  himself.  So  common  was  this  use  of  helpers  and  so 
legitimate  if  confined  to  unimportant  parts  which  are  easily 
within  the  limit  of  their  proficiency,  that  we  should  have  as- 
sumed it  as  a  matter  of  course  in  this  case  were  we  not  defi- 
nitely informed  of  Michelangelo's  experiment  and  its  failure. 
Nothing  more  impresses  us  in  every  phase  of  Michelangelo's 
life  than  his  absolute  isolation.  Isolated  by  his  seemingly 
unsocial  temper,  isolated  by  the  uniqueness  of  his  genius, 
isolated  by  the  exaction  of  his  own  more  perfect  insight,  the 
world  looked  on  amazed  and  helpless,  helpless  to  help  or  even 
to  understand. 

The  first  task  was  to  choose  a  theme  and  the  division  of  the 
vault.  As  before  said,  the  ceiling  was  one  vast  unbroken  ex- 
panse, merely  notched  round  the  edges.  It  was  impossible 
to  cover  it  with  a  single  composition,  the  tendency  to  tours 
deforce  of  this  sort  not  having  gone  its  disastrous  length.  The 
method  of  division  again  was  no  choice  of  Michelangelo  but 
was  predetermined  by  the  practice  and  taste  of  the  time. 
Architectural  division  arranged  as  nearly  as  possible  to  produce 
illusion,  divided  the  vast  plain  surface  into  a  number  of  deep 
panels  which  seem  to  be  windows  opening  into  the  sky.  This 
sumptuous  architectural  setting  furnishes  pedestals  for  large 
numbers  of  figures,  the  significance  of  which  will  appear  later. 
Outside  of  this  series  of  panels  which  occupies  the  great  central 
space,  are  the  notched  edges  of  the  ceiHng  which  are  reserved 
for  later  and  even  more  significant  use. 

The  subject  chosen  for  the  ceiling  is  the  story  of  Genesis, 
beginning  with  the  Creation  and  extending  on  into  later  inci- 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     371 

dents  of  the  Bible  story.  The  beginning  is  at  the  forward  end 
over  the  high  altar,  the  series  extending  backward  toward  the 
great  entrance  doorway.  There  is  much  reason  to  believe 
that  Michelangelo  painted  in  the  opposite  direction,  but  too 
much  conclusion  cannot  be  drawn  from  this,  for  he  must 
certainly  have  chosen  his  subjects  before  beginning  and  made 
his  preliminary  sketches  or  the  cartoons.  Only  in  the 
manner  of  applying  the  fresco  itself  are  we  at  liberty  to  note  his 
progress  as  a  painter,  resulting  from  his  own  rapidly  accumu- 
lating experience.  This  progress  is  remarkable.  If  we  begin 
at  the  end,  that  is,  at  the  great  entrance  doorway,  and  take, 
for  instance,  the  panel  representing  the  Flood,  we  shall  see 
something  of  the  same  sculpturesque  manner  that  Michel- 
angelo had  so  unsatisfactorily  used  in  his  pictures  of  the  Holy 
Family  and  the  Battle  of  Pisa.  There  are  figures  in  throngs, 
executed  with  a  mastery  already  long  familiar,  but  there  is 
little  in  the  environment  to  show  that  Michelangelo  is  think- 
ing primarily  of  a  certain  unit  of  space  and  is  trying  to  give  it  a 
mood  and  a  meaning  all  its  own.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  we 
pass  to  the  later  work,  the  whole  method  changes,  and  finally, 
in  the  last  stages  of  the  work,  the  representations  upon  the  side 
walls  over  the  windows,  the  sculpturesque  style  is  utterly 
abandoned  and  figures  barely  hinted  at  peer  out  of  a  mystery 
of  shadow  that  is  infinitely  suggestive  and  determines  the 
higher  character  of  the  work.  These  changes  in  method,  how- 
ever, significant  as  they  are  and  impressive  to  the  least  tech- 
nically minded,  are  not  the  subject  of  our  study,  nor  will  we 
more  than  note  in  passing  the  restraint  with  which  Michel- 
angelo has  applied  the  principle  of  foreshortening  above 
referred  to.  Along  the  sides  sit  the  Sibyls  and  Prophets, 
those  marvellous  figures  whose  various  attitudes  seem  to 
exhaust  the  possibilities  of  the  study  of  the  human  figure,  all 
in  perfect  erectness  on  the  sloping  walls  of  the  low-dropping 
vault,  sitting  upon  pedestals  which  the  artist  has  constructed 
for  them,  the  foreshortening  giving  the  impression  of  absolute 


372  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

erectness.  But  as  we  gaze  up  into  the  middle  of  the  ceiling 
where  the  curve  of  the  vault  necessarily  becomes  well-nigh  hori- 
zontal, Michelangelo  makes  no  attempt  to  have  figures  stand 
or  sit  upright.  He  knows  that  to  do  so  would  only  show  us 
their  feet  and  legs,  and  that  all  spiritual  suggestion  would  be 
banished  by  this  physical  incongruity.  So  he  accepts  the 
limits  which  a  ceiling  inevitably  imposes,  changes  the  method 
completely,  and  gives  us,  on  the  one  hand,  these  windows 
opened  into  heaven  through  which  passes  the  Creator,  prone, 
floating  over  the  vast  expanse.  Or  when  this  method  does 
not  suit  his  theme,  he  boldly  paints  the  ceiling  panel  as  though 
it  were  a  picture  upon  a  side  wall,  recking  not  that  the  figures 
that  should  stand  upright  are  in  reality  lying  horizontal. 
Better  a  great  deal  to  lay  that  burden  upon  the  imagination 
than  to  stand  them  endwise  and  sacrifice  his  theme  to  the 
sense  of  the  grotesque.  Even  in  the  study  of  these  things  we 
discern  the  master.  But  were  his  mastery  only  in  these  things 
the  Sistine  Ceiling  would  not  have  made  Michelangelo  im- 
mortal. 

And  now,  all  impatient,  we  will  turn  toward  the  artist's 
message.  What  has  he  to  tell  us  of  this  most  hackneyed  theme, 
for  hackneyed  it  is,  worn  threadbare  by  age-long  use,  a  story 
old  and  glazed  with  perfunctory  handling  until  art  has  wearied 
of  its  monotony.  In  the  dreary  art  of  Ghirlandajo,  splendid 
though  his  painting  be,  Bible  tales  are  told  perfunctorily, 
almost  apologetically.  Crowded  into  the  background  are 
Zacharias  and  the  Angel  and  the  Holy  Child,  while  stately 
burghers  of  Florence  line  up  in  the  foreground  and  turn  their 
backs  upon  the  sacred  scene  as  though  ashamed  of  its  empty 
monotony.  Two  hundred  years  of  repetition  had  rung  the 
changes  upon  these  themes  until  they  were  utterly  distasteful. 
Only  once  in  the  history  of  human  art  has  personal  genius  been 
able  to  bring  back  the  dead  to  life,  to  again  endow  with  inter- 
est and  thrill  with  passion  themes  that  have  been  reduced  to 
empty  phrases  and  to  which  the  heart  has  ceased  to  respond. 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     373 

But  we  stumble  at  the  outset,  and  need  one  more  word  by 
way  of  preparation.  Michelangelo  represented  in  the  most 
dogmatic  form  the  more  or  less  conscious  conviction  of  the 
Renaissance  as  to  what  was  a  suitable  subject  for  art.  From 
the  time  of  Homer  down  to  the  nineteenth  century,  the  su- 
premacy of  man  was  undoubted.  The  human  was  human, 
and  the  non-human  was  humanized.  The  Greek  never  raves 
over  a  landscape,  though  he  felt  its  beauty  in  his  own  way. 
Homer  never  speaks  of  the  rosy  dawn.  Such  a  phrase  would 
be  unthinkable.  But  the  "rosy-fingered  dawn,"  —  that  to 
him  was  no  metaphor  but  only  an  inevitable  mode  of  thought. 
So  on  down  to  our  own  day.  Wordsworth  never  wanders 
among  the  hills  of  Grasmere  but  he  has  intimations  of 
immortality  and  suggestions  of  the  supreme  Being.  The 
principle  is  expressed  in  higher  form  perhaps  than  when  "old 
Triton  blew  his  wreathed  horn"  but  it  is  the  same  principle. 
The  impersonal  has  no  meaning  at  all  until  the  imagination 
makes  it  personal.  With  Tennyson  all  is  different.  Read 
through  his  poems  from  cover  to  cover  and  nature  speaks  in 
her  own  character,  impersonal  yet  beautiful,  and  the  heart 
responds,  shaped  by  the  century's  absolute  devotion  to  natural 
science.  To  such  a  heart  the  impersonal  nature  needs  no 
apology,  no  proxy. 

Not  so  to  Michelangelo  or  to  any  of  the  past.  What  others 
felt  he  dogmatically  asserted.  There  was  but  one  subject  for 
art  —  the  human  figure.  You  might  idealize  it,  transfigure  it, 
for  the  human  was  the  image  of  the  divine,  but  to  adopt  a  lesser 
or  a  lower  form  was  the  desecration  of  art.  It  was  indeed 
the  bane  of  painting  that  it  attempted  more  than  sculpture  to 
do  this  degrading  thing. 

Consider  what  it  means  when  an  artist  starts  to  paint  the 
story  of  Creation  and  yet  refuses  to  give  us  other  than  the 
human  form.  The  Creator  he  may  give  us,  for  he  is  but  the 
transfigured  human,  but  for  a  time  at  least  he  can  give  us 
nothing  else.    The  story  of  the  Creation,  therefore,  can  be 


374  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

nothing  other  than  the  story  of  the  Creator.  From  his  vary- 
ing expression  and  varying  moods  we  must  divine  his  work,  the 
spirit,  at  least,  of  his  work,  for  in  art  especially,  "the  letter 
killeth,  it  is  the  spirit  that  maketh  alive."  Hence  this  won- 
derful story  has  been  somewhat  aptly  described  as  ''the  evolu- 
tion of  the  Creator,''  a  successive  revelation  of  the  Creator 
in  his  successive  moods,  each  enlarging  and  supplementing  the 
preceding. 

(C  105)  Our  first  panel  gives  us  seemingly  little  enough. 
When  we  remember  that  we  are  to  find  the  secret  of  Michel- 
angelo's thought  in  the  study  of  the  Creator,  it  disappoints  us 
to  find  that  this  first  figure  is  scarcely  visible.  We  look  at  once 
for  the  face,  for  the  seat  of  expression,  the  source  from  which 
we  are  wont  to  guess  the  meaning  of  personality.  But  the  face 
is  concealed,  apparently  with  intention.  The  void  is  filled 
with  a  vague  mass  of  nebulous  something  into  which  plunges 
the  Creator,  his  prone  figure  moving  rapidly  forward  and  his 
outstretched  arms  buffeting  the  masses  about,  but  the  head  is 
upturned  and  we  see  beneath  the  bearded  chin.  We  are  baffled. 
We  see  nothing  but  mystery.  But  recall  for  a  moment  what 
the  first  day  of  Creation  has  to  tell  us.  All  was  without  form 
and  void,  and  the  Spirit  of  the  Creator  moved  upon  this  void 
and  formless  mass.  That  is  about  as  far  as  we  get  this  first 
day.  What  is  he  doing  ?  We  cannot  tell  yet.  Is  his  effort 
constructive  ?  We  cannot  discern.  Is  it  beneficent  ?  That 
too  is  concealed  in  mystery.  One  thing  only  is  revealed,  just 
the  one  thing  that  that  first  day  told  us.  The  spirit  of  the 
Creator  moved  upon  that  which  was  formless  and  void. 
That  Michelangelo  has  told  us  with  unprecedented  power. 
As  we  gaze  upon  this  figure  whose  features  are  concealed,  whose 
acts  are  indefinite,  whose  spirit  is  unrevealed,  one  impression 
dominates  every  other,  the  one  impression  which  it  was 
Michelangelo's  purpose  to  make  clear.  It  is  a  manifestation 
of  power,  supreme,  irresistible  power,  whose  purpose  and  spirit 
are  as  yet  withheld. 


376  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Our  panels  alternate,  a  large  and  small,  both  to  break  the 
monotony  that  would  otherwise  result,  and  to  accommodate 
the  larger  themes.  We  can  sometimes  vary  the  order  to  ad- 
vantage. Let  us  take  the  third  panel  for  a  moment  in  con- 
trast with  the  first  which  it  in  some  ways  closely  resembles. 
Again  we  have  the  figure  of  the  Creator,  this  time  perfectly 
visible,  for  the  face  is  turned  toward  us,  not  too  significantly, 
however,  for  the  face  still  refuses  to  be  expressive ;  perhaps 
in  an  unsympathetic  mood  we  might  call  it  stolid.  It  is  a 
ponderous  figure,  so  like  and  yet  so  unlike  the  one  we  saw 
first.  Again  he  moves  prone  and  forward  through  the  vast 
reaches  of  space,  the  dimmest  hint  beneath  him  of  land  and 
sea,  but  a  hint  that  taxes  the  imagination,  so  slight  is  it.  It  is 
the  Separation  of  the  Dry  Land  and  the  Sea  (C  107),  or,  if  you 
will,  the  Creation  of  Earth  and  Water.  To  understand  its  in- 
tent we  must  recall  the  ideas  of  the  ancients.  They  knew  noth- 
ing of  our  elements,  oxygen,  hydrogen,  nitrogen,  and  so  forth. 
To  them  all  things  were  fashioned  of  earth,  air,  fire,  and  water. 
And  of  these  elements,  two  were  active  and  two  were  passive. 
Earth  is  obviously  a  passive  element,  and  water  almost  equally 
so,  for  though  mobile,  water  is  as  Uttle  inclined  as  the  earth 
itself  to  move  unless  moved  upon.  But  fire  is  active;  in- 
deed, we  know  it  only  as  such.  And  air,  too,  seemed  con- 
stantly to  start  a-moving  without  outward  cause,  and  so  was 
deemed  to  have  the  power  of  moving  on  its  own  initiative. 
Here  then  we  have  the  creation  of  the  two  passive  elements. 
Now  let  us  recall  what  we  said  at  the  outset,  that  Michel- 
angelo makes  no  effort  to  show  us  the  creative  act.  He  is  artist 
enough  to  know  that  that  act  has  to  do  with  science  and  not 
with  art.  It  is  the  spirit  or  mood  that  dominates  the  act 
which  is  valuable  as  a  theme  in  art.  If,  therefore,  art  is  to 
tell  us  the  story  of  creation,  it  must  give  us  primarily  the 
successive  moods  or  emotions  which  accompanied  the  great 
creative  acts.  To  tell  us  how  it  was  done  would  appeal  to  our 
curiosity,  not  at  all  to  our  emotions.    And  so  it  is  the  spiritual 


378  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

counterpart  of  the  act  and  not  its  great  result  which  Michel- 
angelo isolates  as  the  proper  theme  of  art.  This  case  is  re- 
markably expressive.  The  Creator  passes  before  us,  a  pon- 
derous figure  but  devoid  of  all  exertion.  The  great  arms  are 
stretched  out  but  no  muscle  is  strained.  The  face  is  turned 
toward  us  but  its  passive  features  indicate  a  mind  at  rest. 
The  whole  moves  with  a  vast  momentum  like  the  effortless 
motion  of  the  spheres.  Passivity  and  power,  the  one  not  less 
evident  than  the  other,  these  characterize  the  whole  conception 
and  admirably  portray  the  spiritual  character  of  the  ele- 
ments whose  creation  is  here  suggested. 

Let  us  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  intervening  picture  (C  106), 
the  larger  panel  in  which  the  vaster  theme  is  so  impressively 
represented,  the  Creation  of  the  Sun  and  Moon,  that  is,  of  Fire, 
the  active  element  par  excellence.  See  how  instantly  the  whole 
conception  changes.  The  Creator  is  here  the  same  Creator  as 
before,  but  the  form  suddenly  become  erect,  with  flying  dra- 
pery and  streaming  hair,  tensely  knitted  eyebrows,  and  the 
face  gathered  up  into  one  supreme  assertion  of  power,  either 
arm  stretched  out,  every  muscle  taut,  the  one  merely  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  other  as  he  flings  off  from  his  fingertip  the  great 
orb  of  day  on  its  everlasting  flight.  It  is  a  truism  of  art  that 
these  manifestations  of  power  do  not  befit  the  static  arts. 
Suggest  power  in  repose,  as  we  have  it  in  the  Moses,  and  you 
are  within  your  sphere.  Represent  it  in  full  exercise,  and  the 
petrifying  of  the  momentary  will  inevitably  belittle  the  mani- 
festation, and  you  will  feel  the  limitation  rather  than  the 
illimitable.  Perfectly  true,  and  illustrated  by  a  thousand 
examples.  But  there,  for  some  reason  inscrutable  to  the 
ordinary  observer,  the  law  is  defied  with  impunity.  He  who 
gazes  upon  this  figure  of  the  Creator  with  the  feeling  that  his 
power  is  limited,  with  the  feeling  even  that  it  is  momentary 
suggesting  his  weakness,  with  the  longer  gaze,  has  yet  to  make 
his  impression  known.  Our  artist  has  resources  whose  power 
we  feel  but  cannot  analyze. 


380  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

It  can  hardly  escape  our  notice  that  these  representations 
are  less  simple  as  we  have  progressed ;  at  first  only  the  cloud 
effect  and  the  half-obscured  figure  unattended.  Then  in  the 
panel  next  considered  the  figure  of  the  Creator  is  swathed  in  a 
mighty  garment  within  whose  folds  we  dimly  discern  little 
attendant  figures,  nameless  and  yet  most  appealing  to  the 
imagination.  They  are  invoked  by  the  artist  to  perform  a 
part  which  we  may  best  understand  through  an  analogy. 

The  Greek  drama  was  in  some  respects  like  our  own.  The 
play  consists  of  a  series  of  acts  with  intervals  between  them. 
But  these  intervals  instead  of  being  wasted,  and  given  over  to 
the  frivolous  irrelevancies  of  the  audience,  are  utilized  by  the 
playwright  for  the  most  impressive  of  his  dramatic  devices, 
the  carefully  suggested  response  of  the  audience,  in  the  person 
of  the  chorus.  The  chorus  is  no  part  of  the  play  itself,  but 
a  running  commentary  upon  it.  Here,  in  impassioned  poetry, 
the  playwright  brings  to  bear  all  the  resources  of  his  art  to 
give  voice  to  the  passions  which  the  audience  is  supposed  to 
feel  and  which  he  hopes  to  help  and  to  guide  them  in  feeling. 
The  chorus  bewails  the  fortunes  of  the  victim  and  execrates 
the  villain,  arousing  the  feehngs  of  the  audience  to  the  high- 
est pitch  of  intensity  and  increasing  its  susceptibility  to  the 
utmost  limit,  as  the  play  unveils  its  farther  mysteries. 

In  the  same  way,  these  little  figures  that  accompany  the 
Creator  upon  his  mission  in  some  sense  represent  the  specta- 
tor. Their  part  is  at  first  a  simple  one.  In  the  passive 
scene  of  the  Creation  of  Earth  and  Water  they  too  are  passive. 
One  gazes  forward  to  see  what  is  coming,  the  other  back- 
ward in  quiet  curiosity  to  see  what  change  is  wrought  as  the 
shadow  of  the  Creator  passes.  But  pass  to  the  great  panel, 
the  Creation  of  the  Sun  and  Moon,  and  see  how  instantly 
they  waken  to  the  stirring  strain  of  this  mighty  act.  One 
shields  with  upraised  arm  her  eyes  against  the  blaze  of  the  new 
luminary,  while  another,  peering  out  from  below,  turns  and 
gazes  with  wide-open  eyes  full  of  wonder  and  almost  of  terror 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     381 

up  into  the  face  of  the  Creator,  to  divine,  if  possible,  the  mean- 
ing of  this  unprecedented  mood.  This  psychic  suggestion  cre- 
ates within  us  the  mood  which  befits  the  theme.  Our  eyes  are 
bUnded  by  the  luminary  which  Michelangelo  wisely  has  barely 
suggested  in  his  representation,  and  our  wonder  is  excited  and 
our  awe  borders  upon  fear  as  we  gaze  upon  the  Creator  in  this 
utmost  assertion  of  his  power. 

(C  108)  In  the  center  of  the  ceiling  is  the  great  panel  which  as 
long  as  we  are  human  will  seem  to  us  the  culmination  of  the 
theme.  Its  story  is  told  in  Michelangelo's  own  free  way.  He 
seems  never  to  have  hesitated  to  be  wise  above  what  is  written, 
though  all  unconscious,  perhaps,  of  the  audacity  of  his  inter- 
pretations. The  story  runs,  we  recall,  that  the  Creator  fash- 
ioned man  from  the  dust  of  the  earth  and  breathed  into  his  nos- 
trils the  breath  of  life,  and  man  became  a  living  soul.  Such  a 
story  passes  muster  when  narrated  in  words.  Painting  is  a 
more  exacting  art.  Other  arts  put  no  check  upon  the  most 
grotesque  imagination,  but  painting,  with  its  more  vivid 
appeal  to  the  mind,  quickly  distinguishes  the  grotesque  from 
the  seemly,  and  the  story  must  be  revised  for  the  painter's 
higher  purpose.  Man  here  is  fashioned,  be  it  from  the  dust  of 
the  earth ;  the  fashioning  is  complete.  And  such  a  man,  by 
common  consent  the  most  beautiful  of  all  examples  of  the  nude 
in  Christian  art.  Yet  the  beauty  is  more  often  felt  than  ana- 
lyzed. It  is  not  in  the  perfect  fashioning  of  body,  head,  or 
limbs.  It  is  more  in  the  attitude,  and  the  attitude  again  not 
so  much  expressive  of  life  and  the  experiences  we  know,  as 
suggestive  of  things  more  elemental  in  art. 

When  we  analyze  art  down  to  its  simplest  elements,  Uke  the 
oxygen  and  nitrogen  of  our  planet,  we  shall  find  among  the 
elements  such  things  as  straight  lines,  curves,  and  angles,  which 
it  will  be  difficult  to  resolve  into  anything  simpler,  and  yet 
which  have  a  character,  a  spiritual  character,  if  you  will,  that 
is  quite  inseparably  their  own.  What  can  seemingly  be  more 
meaningless  in  the  world  of  art  and  in  emotion  than  a  straight 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     383 

line  ?  Yet  it  carries  irresistibly  certain  suggestions,  sugges- 
tions of  stiffness,  force,  and  burden-bearing  power.  If  we  were 
in  a  room  where  the  ceiling  was  supported  by  a  central  pillar 
and  that  pillar  were  seen  to  bend  and  assume  a  curved  form,  we 
should  hasten  to  depart.  That  would  be  suggestive  of  weak- 
ness, whereas  the  straightness  and  rigidity  would  reassure 
us  with  its  suggestion  of  strength.  The  curved  line,  in  turn, 
is  suggestive  of  yielding,  softness  and  grace,  a  thing  equally 
beautiful  in  its  proper  place  and  trying  out  of  its  proper  place. 
And  finally,  the  angle  is  suggestive  of  harshness  and  aggres- 
siveness. No  one  feels  compHmented  by  the  suggestion  of  an 
angular  character.  These  meanings  are  not  arbitrary,  though 
it  would  puzzle  us  perhaps  to  trace  them  to  their  origin. 

Now,  Michelangelo's  purpose  is  to  interpret  in  harmony 
with  these  most  elemental  principles  of  art  this  new  chapter 
in  creation.  Man  is  formed  in  all  exquisiteness  and  beauty, 
but  as  he  receives  the  gift  of  life,  it  is  needful  to  suggest  on  the 
one  hand  his  own  imperfect  animation,  yet,  withal,  not  the 
helplessness  and  collapse  of  death,  still  less  the  rigidity  that  our 
imagination  perhaps  reads  into  the  Bible  narrative.  There 
must  be  in  it  all  the  promise  of  beauty  and  grace  and  yet  that 
yielding  to  the  divine  touch  and  to  the  divine  will  which  is 
indispensable  to  our  purpose.  Who  would  read  into  this  story 
of  life's  beginning  ever  so  little  a  suggestion  of  the  malcontent 
or  the  revolte?  The  exquisite  curves  that  grace  this  figure, 
even  more  than  the  perfect  modeling  of  the  figure,  convey  the 
artist's  meaning.  Of  elemental  lines  and  living  attitudes, 
Michelangelo  is  equally  master  and  uses  them  perfectly  for  his 
purpose. 

More  striking  still  is  the  change  that  has  come  over  the 
Creator.  Now  at  last  we  may  look  with  expectation  to  the 
face  for  meaning  and  for  a  message  from  soul  to  soul.  Per- 
haps the  face  at  first  will  disappoint  us.  There  is  little  of  the 
sentiment  with  which  a  debilitated  imagination  has  of  late 
endowed  the  fatherhood  of  God.     Things  are  said  of  the 


384  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Heavenly  Father  that  would  be  a  disgrace  to  an  earthly 
parent,  and  of  which  Michelangelo  knows  nothing.  The  face 
is  frank,  manly,  and  strong,  a  face  to  inspire  confideilce  and 
trust,  the  grandly  human  being,  then  as  always  the  noblest 
suggestion  of  the  divine.  This  meaning,  however,  has  mi- 
grated to  the  face.  The  figure  is  less  prominent,  less  re- 
markable in  posture,  and  yet  one  supreme  exception  must  be 
noted.  Look  at  the  hands,  those  two  hands  that  meet  as  the 
current  of  life  passes  with  the  touch.  In  Michelangelo's 
art  the  hands  are  scarcely  less  expressive  than  the  faces.  Were 
this  work  to  perish  and  leave  us  but  these  two  hands,  the  whole 
story  of  the  giving  and  receiving  of  life  would  still  be  told 
complete. 

Interest  on  the  part  of  the  Uttle  attendant  figures  now 
visibly  increases.  They  swarm  in  larger  numbers  about  the 
Creator.  Over  the  right  shoulder  and  the  left  they  crane  their 
necks  to  gaze  with  joyous  curiosity  at  this  new  creation,  thus 
manifesting  the  larger  interest  which  we  inevitably  feel  in  the 
creation  of  our  kind.  The  sunshine  is  upon  their  faces  and 
eagerness  is  betrayed  in  every  movement.  But  one  figure  is 
different  from  the  rest.  This  figure  turns  shyly  away,  the 
face  as  w6ll,  but  the  eyes  gaze  furtively  forward  with  the  rest, 
with  an  interest  that  belies  the  attitude.  The  arm  of  the 
Creator  is  around  the  neck  protectingly,  lovingly,  as  though 
here  were  an  object  of  his  especial  care.  Can  we  not  almost 
hear  the  Creator  say,  "It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone"  ? 

From  this  supreme  creation  we  pass  with  a  sense  of  relief 
to  a  smaller  panel  which  less  passionately  engages  our  atten- 
tion. The  Creation  of  Woman  (C 1 1 1)  is  one  of  the  least  fehci- 
tous  of  Bible  stories  for  the  painter's  purpose,  and  Michelangelo, 
unable  to  translate  it  into  more  inspiring  form,  contents  him- 
self with  hinting  at  what  will  not  lend  itself  to  picture.  There 
is  little  of  new  revelation  in  the  form  of  the  Creator.  Even 
the  magnificent  figure  of  Eve,  that  strong  mature  type  which 
Michelangelo  always  preferred  for  his  vaster  purposes  to  the 


386  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

graceful,  sylph -like  girlish  form  that  other  artists  affect; 
all  is  excellent  if  not  astonishing.  Adam,  crouching  low  in 
the  corner  of  the  field,  is  buried  in  a  deep,  obscuring  shadow 
which  at  once  subordinates  him  appropriately  in  the  field  of 
vision  and  symbolizes  that  deep  sleep  which  fell  upon  him. 
Even  here  in  the  third  or  fourth  scene  that  our  artist  presents 
he  has  caught"  the  mystery  of  shadow  and  discovered  that  the 
painter  can  use  it  as  the  sculptor  cannot,  to  shift  his  emphasis 
and  to  symbolize  spiritual  reaUties  that  in  marble  must  be 
expressed  by  other  means  if  at  all. 

But  interest  rises  again  to  the  highest  pitch  as  we  come  to 
the  great  scene  of  the  Temptation  and  Expulsion  from  the  Gar- 
den (C  112),  a  scene  which  from  the  decorative  and  color  point 
of  view  is  as  central  and  focal  as  is  the  Creation  of  Man  in 
the  field  of  spiritual  suggestion.  This  is  the  point  to  notice 
perhaps  the  most  surprising  thing  in  Michelangelo's  work. 
Scarce  any  Florentine  ever  understood  the  real  magic  of  color. 
Form  was  everything,  color  too  often  an  unmanageable  ele- 
ment with  which  they  managed  to  vulgarize  and  spoil  the 
forms  which  their  pencil  had  perfectly  expressed.  Of  none 
was  this  truer  than  of  Michelangelo.  It  is  difficult  to  con- 
ceive of  coloring  more  crude,  more  needless  and  noisome  than 
the  color  of  the  Holy  Family  above  referred  to.  The  colors 
are  the  worst  possible,  and  their  handling  is  as  bad  as  their 
choice.  That  he  should  have  triumphed  over  such  diffi- 
culties at  all,  working  against  his  will  and  under  the  furious 
pressure  of  the  ambitious  Pope,  is  a  miracle.  That  he  has 
so  triumphed  is  perfectly  obvious,  but,  simply  because  of  the 
spiritual  grandeur  of  his  creation,  this  triumph  is  too  often 
overlooked.  A  peculiar  tint  of  mingled  gray  and  rose  domi- 
nates this  masterly  composition,  and  now  that  we  look 
at  it  we  shall  find  that  that  tint  goes  everywhere  like  rays 
of  the  sun  diminishing  as  they  go,  yet  everywhere  the  same. 
The  ceiling  has  costumes  and  color  details  in  infinite  variety, 
yet  everywhere  goes  this  same  tint  of  "diaphanous  violet 


388  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

grey,"  infinitely  subtle,  lofty,  and  pure,  blending,  enfolding, 
unifying  all.  It  is  from  this  center,  this  second  focus  of  the 
mighty  work  that  this  color  harmony  radiates  everywhere. 

But  to  return  to  the  story  and  the  spirit  which,  with  Michel- 
angelo, is  always  supreme.  Again  our  story  is  subjected  to 
daring  revision.  In  the  center  is  a  tree  round  which  coils  the 
serpent  whose  body  terminates,  according  to  the  quaint  imagi- 
nation of  Christian  tradition,  in  a  human  body,  head  and  arms. 
Only  so  could  the  role  of  the  serpent  in  this  transaction  be  ex- 
plained. At  the  left  sits  EVe,  like  Adam  in  the  scene  before, 
the  most  splendid  example  of  Michelangelo's  treatment  of  the 
female  nude.  If  we  miss  for  a  moment  the  seductive  charm 
that  French  art  has  doubtfully  lavished  upon  the  female  nude, 
we  need  but  a  second  glance  to  reahze  that  here  is  nobility, 
strength  of  character,  which  successfully  shields  us  from  the 
ever  present  danger  of  the  theme.  Base  indeed  would  be  the 
man  upon  whom  Michelangelo's  nude  could  make  an  impure 
impression. 

The  serpent  reaches  out  the  fruit  of  the  forbidden  tree  which 
Eve  grasps  willingly,  nothing  loath.  But  here  the  story 
changes.  We  had  read  that  "the  woman  ate  of  the  fruit 
of  the  tree  and  gave  to  the  man  and  he  did  eat."  Our  Milton 
farther  shifts  the  responsibility.  The  woman  was  tempted 
while  the  man  was  away.  Had  her  natural  caretaker  and  pro- 
tector been  present,  she  would  not  have  fallen.  When  he 
returns  he  finds  that  all  is  lost,  chides  her  for  her  faithlessness, 
and  then  magnanimously  takes  of  the  fruit  himself  that  he 
may  share  her  fate.  Not  so  our  artist.  Eve  is  tempted 
plainly  enough,  but  Adam  is  not  waiting  for  her  to  give  him 
of  the  fruit.  He  boldly  robs  the  tree.  If  there  is  fruit 
to  have  he  is  going  to  have  it,  and  he  asks  no  odds  of  the 
serpent.  Thus  Michelangelo,  all  unconscious,  it  may  be, 
reads  into  every  act  the  great  lesson  of  human  experience. 
From  the  least  unto  the  greatest  every  form  of  life  tells  us  one 
story.    The  male  element  is  the  aggressive  element.    It  is  for 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     389 

him  to  lead  and  her  to  follow.  So  it  has  been  from  the  be- 
ginning of  time.  It  was  a  quaint  and  unmanly  device  of  the 
early  narrator  to  thus  shift  the  responsibihty.  Of  all  such 
devices  Michelangelo  knows  nothing.  With  an  intuition  that 
asks  no  permissions,  is  conscious  of  no  discrepancies,  he  owes 
allegiance  only  to  the  great  laws  of  life  as  he  knows  them,  and 
he  knows  them  as  a  thing  perfectly  revealed. 

Our  remaining  panels  are  less  inspiring.  Here  is  the 
artist's  earUer  work.  Here  his  first  conceptions.  The  themes 
themselves  were  less  to  his  purpose,  —  the  Flood,  with  its 
confusion  and  its  multipUed  figures,  lends  itself  at  best  far  less 
to  the  artist  whose  power  lay  in  putting  mighty  meanings  into 
a  single  mighty  form.  The  Flood,  the  Drunkenness  of  Noah, 
all  these  have  merit,  but  a  merit  over-shadowed  and  inevi- 
tably forgotten. 

We  are  told  that  the  work  was  done  in  halves  with  an 
interval  between.  The  half  first  completed  was  doubtless  this 
long  central  strip,  the  great  figures  that  encircle  it  being  re- 
served for  later  execution.  The  interval  is  marked  by  a  char- 
acteristic episode  that  is  worth  recalling.  The  Pope,  ever 
impatient,  had  continually  asked  when  the  ceiUng  would  be 
done.  His  curiosity  was  overpowering,  and  hints  were  not 
wanting  that  he  would  like  a  view  of  the  work  as  it  progressed. 
To  all  such  suggestions  Michelangelo  turned  a  deaf  ear.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  His  patron  was  no  artist,  and  to  take 
him  up  upon  a  staging  was  to  give  him  a  glimpse  of  a  figure 
that  would  tell  him  nothing.  It  might  even  give  rise  to  seri- 
ous misunderstandings  and  interference  with  the  work,  for  the 
Pope,  it  must  be  remembered,  was  autocrat,  and  if  an  arm  or 
leg  displeased  him  and  must  needs  be  changed,  there  would 
be  no  appeal  from  his  decision.  The  work  was  so  conceived 
that  only  as  a  whole  and  seen  from  the  proper  point  of  view 
could  it  possibly  be  appreciated.  At  last  the  Pope  took  things 
into  his  own  hands.  Who  should  go  mto  the  Sistine  Chapel 
if  not  the  Pope  ?    So  one  day  he  ventured  in.    The  artist  was 


^oo  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


painting  away  on  the  staging  above,  his  feet  hanging  over 
the  edge  of  a  plank,  when  he  became  conscious  that  the 
Pope  was  stealthily  watching  him  from  below.  Suddenly  a 
plank  fell  from  the  staging  near  where  His  Holiness  stood. 
There  was  a  sudden  dampening  of  his  curiosity.  He  con- 
cluded to  leave  the  Chapel  until  the  artist  should  be  done  with 
it  and  choose  to  show  him  the  work.  Thus  these  two  men, 
half  Titan  and  half  child,  played  their  game  together  around 
this  the  greatest  of  mankind's  achievements. 

When  at  last  the  long  series  of  panels  was  finished,  the 
pressure  upon  Michelangelo  became  irresistible.  Now,  at 
last,  he  had  a  consistent  whole,  so  it  might  be  urged,  and  so 
indeed  it  was.  The  urging  was  renewed  until  at  last  the  artist 
removed  the  staging  and  allowed  the  Pope  and  his  following 
to  gaze  upon  the  great  undertaking.  One  can  imagine  with 
what  eagerness  this  stern  old  Pope,  his  head  sinking  daily  lower 
upon  his  bosom,  entered  to  see  this  work  which  was  the  ob- 
ject of  so  much  solicitude.  One  can  imagine  too  with  what 
other  eagerness  these  enemies  of  Michelangelo,  led  by  the 
powerful  Bramante,  and  now  crystallized  round  the  most 
lovable  of  all  the  artist's  rivals,  the  charming  Raphael,  entered 
to  see  if  the  artist  had  met  their  malevolent  expectations. 
They  were  not  left  long  in  doubt.  What  must  have  been  the 
emotions  of  Julius  as  he  gazed  upon  this  Creator  of  the  Sun 
and  Moon,  this  Titan  among  the  Gods  who  so  perfectly  em- 
bodied his  own  invincible  spirit!  Now  for  the  first  time 
JuUus  had  found  his  God.  The  creations  of  other  artists  had 
been  insipid,  travesties  upon  the  divine  as  he  knew  it,  as  he 
dreamed  it,  if  indeed  he  dreamed  at  all.  Here  for  the  first 
time  was  the  Creator  that  created  him,  who  endowed  him  with 
that  indomitable  energy  that  could  hurl  worlds  into  being. 
Such  a  God  he  knew  and  recognized.  Here  indeed  was  art, 
to  which  his  own  heart  answered  back  as  it  had  never  answered 
back  before.  The  Pope's  word  was  not  final,  but  for  the  mo- 
ment it  was  law.     But  let  us  charitably  beUeve  that  there  was 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     391 

no  enemy  of  Michelangelo  so  irreconcilable  that  he  did  not 
here  recognize  the  creation  of  a  master.  The  unanimity  which 
has  scarce  been  broken  by  the  bitterest  of  critics  since,  was 
for  the  moment  complete. 

But  hostility  to  Michelangelo  was  not  finished.  There 
was  perhaps  something  of  truth  in  the  plea  which  the  rival 
clique  now  made  to  the  mighty  pontiff.  This  work  was  a 
unit,  perfect  and  complete.  Nothing  might  be  subtracted 
from  it ;  equally,  nothing  might  be  added  to  it.  Any  addi- 
tion would  be  an  irrelevancy,  out  of  harmony  with  the  great 
central  overpowering  thought.  What  is  perfection  save  that 
to  which  nothing  can  be  added  and  that  from  which  nothing 
can  be  taken  aw^ay  ?  Michelangelo  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to 
spoil  his  ow^n  creation  or  to  create  a  rival  to  it.  Leave  it  as  it 
was.  And  now  let  our  beloved  Raphael  fill  these  vacant  and 
irregular  spaces,  w^here  his  genial  compositions  would  fit  with 
such  infinite  grace.  Such  was  the  plea,  but  the  old  pontiff, 
hoodwinked  perhaps  before,  when  malevolent  suggestion 
seemed  to  favor  his  purpose,  now  shut  his  grim  lips  together 
like  a  vise  and  declared  that  while  he  sat  in  the  Chair  of  St. 
Peter  no  hand  but  Michelangelo's  should  touch  the  Sistine 
Ceiling !  He  sat  in  the  Chair  of  St.  Peter  just  about  long 
enough. 

The  massive  architectural  di\isions  between  the  panels  in 
the  great  central  vault  are  carried  down  the  sides  of  the  vault, 
forming  large  spaces  between  the  windows  for  the  reception  of 
the  colossal  figures  which  have  most  impressed  the  imagina- 
tion of  mankind  (C  117  to  128).  Here  sit  the  Prophets  and 
Sibyls.  The  place  of  the  former  in  a  work  of  this  kind  could 
not  be  doubted.  They  are  the  great  founders  of  the  Hebrew, 
and  so  of  the  Christian  faith.  Popular  convenience  has  dis- 
tinguished between  major  and  minor  prophets.  This  suggests 
little  more  to  the  ordinary  reader  than  prophets  who  wrote 
large  books  and  prophets  who  wrote  small  books.  The 
distinction  to  Michelangelo's  mind  is  seemingly  more  fimda- 


392  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

mental.  The  minor  prophets  offer  him  an  opportunity,  as 
always,  for  the  portrayal  of  magnificent  figures,  and  to  those 
who  judge  art  solely  by  skill  in  such  portrayal,  these  figures 
must  be  counted  among  the  noblest  of  the  ceiling.  Such  fig- 
ures, for  instance,  are  Zechariah  (C  121),  and,  above  all,  Joel 
(C  120),  who  in  dignified  nobleness  and  magnificent  freedom 
are  equal  to  the  best  creations  of  our  artist.  But  Michelan- 
gelo's work  is  never  to  be  judged  by  the  simple  portrayal  of  the 
figure.  That  to  him  was  a  means  and  not  an  end.  Zechariah, 
for  instance,  sits  in  profile,  deeply  engrossed  in  reading  a  book. 
Behind  him  stand  two  little  figures  which  remind  us  irresistibly 
of  the  figures  in  the  panels  above,  attending  the  Creator,  and 
in  some  way  associated  with  His  character  and  activity. 
The  association,  which  we  cannot  resist,  is  doubtless  intended. 
They  are  to  be  thought  of  here  as  His  representatives,  the 
still  small  voice  through  which  His  revelation  is  made  known 
to  the  prophet  and  so  to  mankind.  But  Zechariah  is  appar- 
ently unconscious  of  these  figures  behind  him.  They  look 
over  his  shoulder  and  eagerly  await  an  opportunity  for  the 
communication  of  their  message.  The  opportunity  does  not 
come.  Likewise  in  the  case  of  Joel,  absorbed  in  the  reading 
of  his  manuscript.  Nothing  could  be  more  dignified  or  beau- 
tiful in  its  way  than  this  figure,  but  despite  obvious  effort  to 
attract  attention,  the  little  figures  that  represent  the  divine 
Spirit  gain  no  hearing.  Joel,  like  Zechariah,  is  absorbed  in 
reading  his  book.  The  minor  prophet  has  always  "read  his 
book,"  the  proper  act,  no  doubt,  for  those  born  to  be  minor 
prophets. 

In  the  case  of  Daniel  (C  123),  we  have  a  distinct  and  some- 
what striking  departure  from  the  precedent  thus  established. 
The  figure  is  beyond  question  a  late  one  in  Michelangelo's  work. 
So  astonishing  is  the  freedom  which  the  artist  manifests  in 
handling  the  painter's  art  that  critics  have  been  wont  to  boldly 
defy  tradition  and  declare  that  Michelangelo  could  not  have 
painted  this  figure  but  must  have  had  a  helper  more  familiar 


*     > 


C  121,  The  Prophet  Zechariah.     Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican, 
Rome.     Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


C  120,  The  Prophet  Joel.     Ceiling,  Sisline  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


C  123,  The  Prophet  Daniel.     C\'iHiig,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


396  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

with  this  unfavored  and  misunderstood  art.  The  way  in 
which  the  shadow  is  thrown  across  the  face  —  this  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  painter,  not  of  the  sculptor.  The  one  weak- 
ness in  all  these  criticisms  is  the  failure  to  perceive  that 
Michelangelo  was  striding  along  with  seven-league  boots  to 
the  very  summit  of  the  painter's  art.  With  that  power  that 
possessed  him  in  every  stage  of  activity,  he  was  accomplish- 
ing in  two  years  that  which  art  had  been  accomplishing  in 
as  many  centuries.  This  figure  is  but  one  example  among 
scores,  of  a  mastery  of  which  his  earlier  painting  shows  no 
trace. 

But  what  has  he  told  us  of  Daniel  ?  He  evidently  remem- 
bers, as  we  do,  one  incident  in  the  book  above  every  other  — 
the  refusal  of  Daniel  to  live  upon  the  king's  meat  and  the 
success  of  his  experimental  dietary.  Daniel  is  an  athlete,  the 
magnificent  embodiment  of  physical  manhood.  As  such 
Michelangelo  represents  him,  with  all  sympathy.  But  from 
all  we  know  of  Michelangelo,  the  book  of  Daniel  as  a  prophecy 
must  have  appealed  to  him  little,  this,  of  all  the  books  in 
the  sacred  canon,  the  most  enigmatical.  It  has  been  the 
proHfic  source  of  more  fantastic  forecasts  of  human  events 
than  all  others  put  together.  There  is  nothing  fantastic  in 
Michelangelo's  thought.  If  we  do  not  understand  him  it  is 
not  because  he  is  intricate  or  indirect.  He  has  the  directness 
of  a  child.  It  is  merely  the  vastness  of  his  passions  which 
baffles  our  imagination.  For  the  stilted  symbolism  of  Daniel 
he  could  have  had  no  possible  sympathy.  It  is  quite  signifi- 
cant that  the  little  figure  that  elsewhere  voices  the  sacred  mes- 
sage, should  here  be  degraded  to  a  menial  service.  He  comes 
down  and  holds  the  book  in  which  this  minor  prophet  is  read- 
ing and  from  which  he  is  apparently  copying  excerpts.  It 
would  be  dangerous  to  force  too  far  such  inferences,  but  it  is 
impossible  to  avoid  the  suggestion. 

Turning  now  to  the  major  prophets,  all  suddenly  changes. 
Look  at  Ezekiel  (C  119)  as  he  sits,  not  now  reading  from  the 


C  119,  The  Prophet  Ezekiel.    Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


398  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

. . • 

manuscript  which  he  holds  mechanically  and  forgotten  in  his 
hand,  but  listening  with  all  possible  attention  to  the  little  fig- 
ure that  with  excited  mien  and  gesture  is  now  pointing  at  some- 
thing without.  The  prophet  sits,  his  figure  thrown  forward 
like  the  Moses  but  in  an  attitude  even  more  suggestive  of  im- 
pending action.  One  foot  is  drawn  back  as  if  to  receive  the 
weight  of  the  body  an  instant  later.  The  head  is  alert,  the 
eyes  wide  open,  the  gaze  of  superhuman  intensity.  What  is 
the  alliision?  No  one  who  has  read  the  book  of  Ezekiel 
can  ever  forget  that  of  which  the  artist  would  here  remind 
us,  —  the  vision  of  Ezekiel.  Just  what  he  saw  is  not  too 
clear,  was  not  too  clear,  perhaps,  to  him,  but  as  the  Creator  is 
borne  through  the  heavens  on  the  backs  of  these  winged 
creatures,  he  left  upon  the  mind  of  the  prophet  as  upon  all 
who  have  heard  his  message,  the  impression  of  majesty  and 
of  whirlwind  force  that  has  fascinated  the  imagination 
of  mankind.  At  such  a  vision  Ezekiel  is  obviously  gazing,  a 
thing  pointed  out  by  the  messenger  of  inspiration.  For- 
getting all  lesser  revelations  he  now  gazes,  not  with  eye  alone, 
but  with  all  the  energies  of  his  frame  fixed  upon  the  fearful 
spectacle. 

Turning  to  Jeremiah  (C  118),  note  the  contrast.  His  name 
has  left  its  impress  upon  every  Christian  tongue.  The  Jere- 
miad is  the  prophecy  of  pessimism  and  despair.  Notice  how 
every  resource  is  drawn  upon  for  the  expression  and  emphasis  - 
of  this  thought.  He  sits  with  his  legs  crossed  as  though  per- 
manently out  of  action.  One  hand  drops  idly  as  though  un- 
nerved forever,  recalling  once  more  Michelangelo's  power  of 
expressing  character  through  the  hand.  Upon  the  other 
hand  rests  the  heavy  weight  of  the  head.  The  eyes  are 
downcast  or  closed.  He  sees  not,  would  fain  not  see,  for  what 
he  sees  is  evil,  and  evil  continually.  Inert,  heavy  with  a 
sorrow  that  betokens  utter  hopelessness,  this  Michelangelo 
has  expressed  not  through  face  alone  but  through  the  body 
eloquent,  whose  resources  he  commands  as  completely  as 


C  118,  The  Prophet  Jeremiah.    Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


400  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

ever  did  the  Greek.  And  now  a  master  stroke.  Behind 
him  stand  the  figures  who,  as  heretofore,  are  the  messengers 
of  the  divine,  but  now  for  the  first  time  we  have  not  childish 
figures  but  adults.  Michelangelo  seems  to  appreciate  that 
the  sentiments  here  expressed  are  such  as  are  impossible  for 
a  child.  The  child  grieves  but  never  despairs.  The  buoyancy 
of  youth  is  incapable  of  these  deep  and  permanent  sentiments, 
for  it  is  only  permanent  and  temperamental  sorrow  that  has 
any  value  in  art.  Hence  adults  are  drafted  into  the  service 
and  these,  in  turn,  sharply  contrasted  as  representing  the 
familiar  extremes  of  strength  and  weakness  in  despair.  We 
have  all  known  those  who,  overwhelmed  by  misfortune,  have 
made  prompt  and  ignominious  surrender,  collapsing  under 
the  blow,  not  unfrequently  willing  to  lay  upon  an  unwilling 
world  the  burden  of  their  grief.  And  then  we  have  known 
others  who,  robbed,  it  may  be,  in  a  moment  of  all  that  life 
held  dear,  have  gone  about  their  daily  task  as  before,  the 
same  cheerful  greeting,  the  same  prompt  helpfulness,  sorrow 
tearing  their  very  heart  out,  but  bearing  it  alone  with  them- 
selves and  with  God,  —  the  heroic  type,  less  common,  yet  to 
none  of  us  unknown.  Michelangelo's  repertory  of  human 
character  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  paint  this  contrast 
in  these  figures  that  voice  the  message  of  despair.  The  one 
with  drooping  head  and  dishevelled  hair  weakly  yields  in 
abject  surrender.  The  other,  with  head  held  high,  a  face 
in  which  despair  is  more  absolute  than  any  other,  but  after  all, 
a  spirit  unbroken  and  undismayed.  Thus  our  artist  rings 
the  changes  upon  that  humanity  that  we  know  so  well  and 
which,  represented  in  its  more  permanent  traits,  is  the  su- 
preme and  undying  theme  in  art. 

Isaiah  (C  122)  is  perhaps  as  a  figure  the  most  splendid  on  the 
ceiling,  but  the  theme  was  one  that  lent  itself  less  readily  to 
expression  through  painting  than  the  others.  By  common 
consent  the  greatest  of  all  the  prophets,  his  message  is  not 
one    that   furnishes   a  dramatic   incident    like   Ezekiel  or 


C  122,  The  Prophet  Isaiah.     Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Home. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


402  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

outward  despair  like  Jeremiah.  He  is  spiritually  subjective 
among  the  prophets  and  hence  the  one  least  capable  of  inter- 
pretation through  an  art  that  is  primarily  objective  and  sen- 
suous. Of  his  inspiration,  his  deeper  insight,  none  can  doubt^ 
but  how  shall  we  in  painting  portray  a  spirit  turned  inward 
upon  the  mental  vision  ?  Michelangelo's  representation  is 
significant.  He  is  simply  a  splendid  figure,  sitting  quietly 
this  time,  yet  erect  and  strong,  again  with  the  written  word, 
but  all  unheeded.  There  is  nearer  word  at  hand,  and  the 
messenger  this  time  has  a  hearing.  Not  excited,  as  in  the  case 
of  Ezekiel,  not  despairing  and  Voiceless  as  with  Jeremiah,  but 
simply  deeply  earnest,  he  voices  his  message,  and  Isaiah,  his 
eyes  half  closed,  gazing  at  nothing  without,  sits,  the  very 
picture  of  intense  and  uttermost  attention.  He  listens,  seeing 
not  the  thing  without,  but  seeing  what  Ezekiel  might  never 
see. 

By  common  consent,  and  apparently  by  the  artist's  own 
choice,  the  place  of  honor  belongs  to  Jonah  (C  1 1 7) ,  for  the  artist 
has  placed  him  at  the  front  of  the  Chapel  above  the  high  altar 
where  those  who  enter  by  the  door  opposite,  or  the  worshipper 
as  he  rises  from  prayer  may  most  easily,  most  certainly  see 
this  colossal  figure.  Yet  the  figure  is  at  first  unbeautiful. 
It  does  not  compare  in  splendid  spiritual  inspiration  with  the 
figure  of  Isaiah,  as  indeed  why  should  he  ?  The  message  of 
Jonah  to  the  world  has  been  a  very  different  one  from  that  of 
Isaiah,  though  the  idle  disputes  to  which  his  prophecy  has 
given  such  endless  provocation  are  hardly  chargeable  to  his 
account.  Why  then  this  supreme  honor,  this  universal 
praise  ? 

There  is  some  reason  to  fear  that  the  honor  accorded  to 
this  figure  by  Michelangelo's  contemporaries  was  not  based 
on  the  deepest  understanding.  The  chronicler  raves  inconti- 
nent over  this  marvelous  artist  who,  on  a  wall  that  leaned 
forward,  could  make  a  figure  lean  backward.  It  is  indeed  a 
marvel   of   technical   skill.    Nowhere   upon    the   ceiling  is 


C  117,  The  Prophet  Jonah.     Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


404  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

Michelangelo's  skill  in  foreshortening  more  apparent  than 
here.  Every  degree  of  foreshortening  finds  application  to 
some  part  of  this  curiously  postured  figure,  the  whole  being 
instinct  with  a  Ufe  and  a  vehemence  that  is  rare  even  in  the 
magnificent  creations  of  Michelangelo.  But  why  does  the 
figure  lean  backward  ?  If  he  leans  backward  merely  to  give 
opportunity  for  these  feats  of  foreshortening,  then  the  whole 
is  unworthy  and  is  in  violation  of  Michelangelo's  most  sacred 
canon,  —  the  subordination  of  skill  to  the  higher  ends  of  art. 
Let  us  accept  this  as  a  purposeless  display  of  cleverness  only 
when  we  must.  The  whole  precedent  of  Michelangelo's 
work  is  opposed  to  such  a  conclusion. 

At  the  risk  of  trespassing  beyond  our  field  we  must  for  a 
moment  recall  the  prophecy  which  Michelangelo  is  here  inter- 
preting. The  suggestions  which  follow  are  an  attempt  to 
divine  the  artist's  views.  The  book  is  a  novel,  or,  if  the  word 
offend,  we  will  call  it  a  parable,  a  name  which  is  synonymous 
but  perhaps  less  startling.  The  purpose  of  the  writer  is  to 
rebuke  the  Hebrews  for  their  race  selfishness,  in  all  time  their 
most  conspicuous  weakness.  The  characters  and  incidents 
are  doubtless  pure  fiction,  not  the  less  true  or  appropriate 
for  their  purpose.  Jonah,  a  Hebrew  prophet,  is  told  to  carry 
to  the  city  of  Nineveh  (the  writer  purposely  chooses  the 
metropolis  of  the  ancient  world)  a  stern  message  of  condem- 
nation and  impending  destruction.  He  refuses  to  go.  His 
concern  is  solely  for  his  own  people.  He  holds  that  charity 
begins  at  home,  a  convenient  remark  in  such  cases.  But 
Jonah  has  to  go ;  the  Almighty  has  ways  of  his  own  for  accom- 
plishing his  purpose.  In  this  case  the  way  chosen  was  pecul- 
iar but  nowise  unusual  for  the  Oriental  story  teller.  The  ease 
with  which  he  reaches  into  the  crudest  and  most  unplausible 
supernatural  to  help  out  the  exigencies  of  his  plot  is  proverbial. 
It  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  the  Orient  reader.  When 
Jonah,  sullen  under  compulsion,  at  last  makes  his  way  to 
Nineveh,  his  message  is  delivered  with  a  vengeance.    The 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     405 

people  are  startled,  impressed,  and  the  injunction  to  repent- 
ance is  heeded  in  an  unusual  degree.  And  then,  to  the  com- 
plete discomfiture  of  the  unwilling  prophet,  the  repentant 
people  are  spared.  Jonah  has  absolutely  no  patience  with 
this  new  course  of  events.  He  says  in  substance,  "I  came 
against  my  will  and  against  my  better  judgment.  I  delivered 
the  message  as  it  was  given  to  me.  I  told  these  people  that 
for  their  sins  they  were  to  be  destroyed,  and  named  the  day 
as  given  to  me.  I  have  staked  my  reputation  as  a  prophet 
upon  this  message,  and  here  the  day  has  arrived,  and  just 
because  these  unworthy  Gentiles  have  repented,  the  proph- 
ecy is  not  fulfilled  and  my  reputation  is  sacrificed."  There 
is  something  half  humorous  in  Jonah's  frank  expression  of 
grievance. 

We  all  know  how  the  story  continues,  Jonah,  worn  out  by 
his  peevish  complaint,  lies  down  under  the  shade  of  an  arbor 
and  falls  asleep.  But  he  awakes  with  the  sun  upon  him, 
for  a  worm  has  cut  down  the  gourd  whose  shade  covered  the 
arbor,  and  it  has  withered  away,  and  Jonah  expresses  regret 
that  the  gourd  has  perished.  Then  comes  the  voice  of  the 
Lord,  saying,  "Jonah,  thou  hadst  compassion  on  the  gourd 
that  was  cut  down  by  the  worm,  and  should  I  not  have  com- 
passion on  six  hundred  thousand  souls  who  knew  not  their 
right  hand  from  their  left?"  Could  any  message  be  more 
plain?  Could  any  message  in  its  way  be  more  significant? 
One  interpreter  only,  seems  to  have  disentangled  this  sig- 
nificant message  from  the  literary  accidents  which  have  con- 
fused our  alien  thought,  one  interpreter  only,  and  he  not  a 
commentator  or  an  exegete,  but  an  artist. 

Look  again  upon  Michelangelo's  picture.  Jonah,  perched 
upon  a  high  seat  from  which  he  can  look  down  contemptu- 
ously upon  this  object  of  his  disdain,  leans  backward  and 
turns  his  coarse,  unsympathetic  face  up  in  angry  protest  to 
God  and  says,  "  See,  there  it  is,  not  destroyed  at  all !  The 
time  is  up  and  I  am  compromised  forever."    And  off  to  the 


4o6  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

right,  a  little  baby  face,  the  youngest,  gentlest  of  them  all, 
turns  sad  Uttle  grieving  eyes  upon  Jonah  and  raises  a  tiny, 
protesting  hand,  as  who  should  say,  ''Jonah  !  Jonah  !"  In 
the  whole  range  of  Christian  art  there  is  no  profounder  or 
more  impressive  interpretation.  The  theme  is  not  one  of 
spiritual  exaltation,  of  quiet  calm,  or  peace,  like  the  mag- 
nificent Isaiah.  It  has  its  unlovely  aspect,  but  that  is  but 
incidental  to  the  deeper  spiritual  suggestion  which  so  easily 
exalts  it  to  the  highest  rank  of  art. 

'  (C  124-128).  Turning  to  the  Sibyls,  our  thought  is  at  first 
one  of  wonder  that  they  should  be  included  here  among  the 
worthies  of  our  Christian  faith,  but  it  was  the  tradition  of  the 
Christian  Church  that  they  had  revealed,  dimly,  to  be  sure,  but 
yet  revealed  to  the  peoples  to  whom  they  ministered,  the  com- 
ing of  the  Lord.  They  therefore  find  not  inappropriately  their 
place  here  among  the  prophets.  But  they  offer  to  Michel- 
angelo a  different  and,  at  first  sight,  a  lesser  opportunity. 
The  disadvantage  is  turned  by  his  colossal  genius  to  account, 
and  he  has  given  them  a  meaning  which  the  prophets  them- 
selves do  not  convey.  There  are  no  Sibylline  books.  It  was 
impossible  to  tell  by  tradition  or  record  in  what  respect 
Delphica  differed  from  Libyca.  They  are  but  shadowy  figures 
Upon  the  background  of  a  vast  tradition.  Left  thus  to  his 
own  imagination,  Michelangelo  at  once  transcends  the  narrow 
bounds  of  temperamental  peculiarity  as  we  find  it  in  Ezekiel, 
Jeremiah,  and  Isaiah.  Emptied  of  their  meaning  he  fills  them 
with  the  largest  meaning  of  all,  for  it  is  in  the  Sibyls  that  we 
read  the  great  character  of  prophecy  itself.  It  is  not  a  proph- 
ecy, but  prophecy,  that  expresses  itself  through  them.  Noth- 
ing is  more  significant  than  the  contrasted  opinions  that  have 
been  expressed  with  regard  to  these  remarkable  creations.  One 
writer  chooses  the  Erythrean  Sibyl  (C  125)  as  easily  first  among 
these  splendid  creations,  praises  the  rest  but  disparages  at  the 
close  the  Libyan  Sibyl  as  one  unaccountable  to  his  mind  in  a 
work  otherwise  supremely  great.     Upon  what  possible  ground 


C  125,  The  Erythrean  Sibyl.    Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel.  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo.  1475-1564. 


4o8  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

such  judgments  are  based,  the  present  writer  cannot  remotely 
guess.  The  spiritual  significance  of  these  various  figures  is  so 
stupendous  and,  for  the  most  part,  so  clear  that  it  seems  im- 
possible that  the  most  perverted  studio  taste  can  be  uncon- 
scious of  it.  And  nowhere  is  this  message  more  striking 
than  in  the  case  of  the  Libyan  Sibyl,  a  figure  which  the  present 
writer  would  snatch  more  eagerly  from  destruction  than  any 
other  upon  the  entire  ceiling.  It  cannot  be  too  strongly  in- 
sisted that  these  works  are  to  be  regarded  not  merely  as 
studies  in  the  human  figure.  Their  significance  in  this  con- 
nection is  indubitable,  but  this  connection  is  intrinsically  so 
insignificant,  so  subordinate  to  the  higher  things  of  art  to  which 
Michelangelo  is  devoted  that  to  judge  them  by  any  such  stand- 
ard is  like  judging  the  more  immortal  passages  of  Shakespeare 
by  their  grammar.  It  is  hardly  less  than  an  impertinence  to 
obscure  even  for  a  moment  these  spiritual  messages  by  con- 
siderations of  technique. 

(C  126)  The  Delphic  Sibyl  is  perhaps  the  best  and  most 
favorably  known,  —  a  youthful  figure  and  comely  in  the  ex- 
treme, for  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  Michelangelo  that  the  profound- 
est  and  even  the  most  somber  spiritual  emotions  are  expressed 
through  singularly  beautiful  forms  and  faces.  The  custom  of 
art  has  here  been  influenced  by  human  tradition.  Mankind 
associates  spiritual  beauty  with  something  less  than  the  most 
perfect  physical  charm.  The  prophet  expressed  the  expec- 
tancy of  the  race  when  he  saw  in  the  Messiah,  with  all  his 
spiritual  comeliness,  a  face  marred  above  the  countenances 
of  men  and  "no  beauty  that  we  should  desire  him."  Rarely 
has  the  reconciliation  between  spiritual  perfection  and  phys- 
ical beauty  been  completely  effected  in  art.  But  our  youth- 
ful sibyl  is  undeniably  beautiful.  Yet  to  dwell  upon  that  fact 
or  to  mention  it,  produces  an  almost  instant  recoil.  The  face 
so  totally  lacks  anything  of  the  consciousness  that  usually  ac- 
companies physical  beauty,  that  we  deprecate  attention  or 
allusion  to  the  fact.     Other  thoughts  fill  her  mind.     Another 


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C  126,  The  Delphic  Sibyl.     Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


4IO  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

meaning  is  supreme  in  her  comely  face.  The  eyes  are  wide 
open  with  an  expression  that  is  tinged  with  pain.  The  mouth, 
too,  is  slightly  open  to  accommodate  the  heavier  breathing 
that  speaks  of  excitement.  There  is  an  evident  conscious- 
ness of  the  overwhelming  responsibility  which  her  task 
involves.  She  is  a  novice  at  the  task,  and  this  heavy,  this 
almost  crushing  responsibility,  so  appropriately  suggested  by 
this  novice  among  the  prophets,  is  the  first  great  thought  that 
Michelangelo  would  convey  to  us  as  he  groups  around  this 
story  of  God  and  his  creations,  the  appropriate  theme  of  his 
messengers  and  of  their  relation  to  God  and  to  man.  Ex- 
tremes meet  as  we  come  next  to  the  Persian  Sibyl  (C 1 24) ,  the  lat- 
est, perhaps,  of  them  all,  a  figure  from  whom  all  consciousness 
of  other  things  has  disappeare'd.  The  face  is  half  turned  away, 
yet  strongly,  perfectly  revealed,  her  attention  completely 
absorbed  in  the  book  which  she  reads  to  the  forgetting  of  all 
other  things.  Her  meaning  again  is  easy  and  clear.  It  is 
the  absorbing  nat|ire  of  the  great  function  of  prophecy,  the 
way  in  which  it  takes  possession  of  body,  soul  and  spirit. 
How  little  is  here  left  for  the  contemplation  of  those  name- 
less, petty  cares  that  fill  the  warp  and  woof  of  life  ! 

(C 1 2 7)  Passing  to  the  Cumaean  Sibyl  again  all  changes.  This 
is  the  strangest,  the  most  striking,  if  not  the  most  beloved  of 
all  these  titanic  figures.  The  frame  of  a  giantess,  with  bared 
arms  that  are  appallingly  powerful ;  a  head  small  in  propor- 
tion, for  reasons  long  ago  suggested ;  she  again  is  absorbed  in 
her  task.  But  the  suggestion  of  that  terrible  face  is  not  in 
the  least  the  same  as  that  of  the  deeply  absorbed  Persica.  It 
inspires  something  akin  to  terror.  We  are  accustomed  to  the 
weakness  and  pliability  of  the  feminine,  a  tradition  perhaps 
not  wholly  deserved.  The  voice  of  woman  somehow  jars 
strongly  in  the  imperative  mood.  But  look  upon  this  face 
and  see  if  there  is  a  suggestion  of  feminine  yielding  and  per- 
suasive sweetness.  The  expression  of  the  face,  supplemented, 
be  it  noticed,  mpst  admirably,  by  the  powerful  frame  which 


C  124,  The  Persian  Sibyl.     Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


C  127,  The  CumsBan  Sibyl.    Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican, 
Home.    Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     413 

perfectly  serves  its  purpose,  is  that  of  irresistible  power,  let  us 
rather  say  of  inexorable  will.  It  reminds  us  that  the  words 
she  will  speak  are  the  decrees  of  God,  with  whom  is  neither 
variableness  nor  shadow  of  turning,  a  characteristic  surely 
appropriate  to  the  great  th^me  of  prophecy.  Profoundly 
significant,  these  vast  traits  that  outline  this  greatest  of  func- 
tions are  one  by  one  being  drawn  with  certain  hand  by  our 
artist  prophet. 

(C  128)  We  may  close  this  delineation  with,  the  Libyan, 
strangest,  and,  as  above  noted,  to  some  most  incomprehen- 
sible of  all,  yet  how  can  her  message  be  overlooked?  She 
sits  there,  turning  upon  her  seat  to  lift  down  the  heavy  tome 
whose  weight,  be  it  remarked,  is  no  small  factor  in  the  im- 
pression that  it  produces.  All  is  weighty,  heavy,  sombre, 
here,  yet  the  face  and  figure  are  of  surpassing  beauty.  Phidias 
himself  would  have  called  them  classical.  There  is  an  obvious 
kinship  here  to  the  most  beautiful  types  upon  the  ceiling  else- 
where, to  one  in  particular  that  we  shall  notice  in  a  moment. 
Beauty  transcendent,  yet  forgotten  by  her,  forgotten  by  us, 
because  from  it  all  there  is  one  supreme  dominating  expression. 
It  is  that  of  pathos.  The  message  that  she  is  commanded  to 
transmit  to  man,  a  message  to  which  she  is  wonted  now,  for 
she  is  not  the  novice  that  we  saw  at  the  first,  that  message  is  not 
merely  weighty,  not  merely  attention  compelling,  not  merely 
inexorable,  but,  alas,  it  is  a  message  of  sadness.  The  sin  of 
man  and  the  disaster  and  suffering  that  it  has  brought  into 
life,  these  are  the  great  themes  with  which  the  messenger  of 
God  can  scarce  fail  to  be  impressed  above  all  else.  They 
recall  that  significant  sentence  from  one  of  George  Eliot's 
letters,  one  that  she  wrote  with  no  thought  that  we  should 
ever  read:  "The  religion  of  the  future  must  take  larger  ac- 
count of  that  which  is  after  all  of  all  things  best  known  to  us, 
the  sorrow  of  the  human  lot."  If  any  are  tempted  to  feel 
that  this  is  not  the  thing  we  know  best,  they  are  indeed  for- 
tunate.   Be  that  as  it  may,  one  thing  is  certain.     It  is  those 


C  128,  The  Libyan  Sibyl.     Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     415 

that  have  felt  this  first  and  foremost  and  who,  feeling  it  by 
the  deeper  predisposition  of  their  own  nature,  have  been  most 
pr9mpt  with  that  sympathy  which  is  sorrow's  only  possible 
alleviation,  that  the  world  has  chiefly  delighted  to  honor. 
Such  a  one  was  Job,  such  a  one  was  Savonarola,  such  a  one 
was  George  Eliot,  such  a  one  was  Michelangelo,  chief  among 
them  all. 

Now  as  we  look  back  over  this  wonderful  series,  each  with 
its  contribution  to  the  spiritual  interpretation  of  our  great 
theme,  let  us  stop  for  a  moment  and  notice  Michelangelo's 
method  as  an  artist.  These  sibyls  are  women,  we  say.  But 
are  they  ?  Female  forms,  to  be  sure,  but  are  they  in  essence, 
feminine  ?  It  were  dangerous  here  to  venture  upon  the  defi- 
nition of  the  indefinable,  the  eternally  feminine  that  lures  us 
on,  but  none  can  be  wholly  unconscious  of  what  that  word 
suggests.  First  and  foremost,  using  the  word  in  a  sense 
exalted  and  pure,  it  stands  for  charm,  the  instinctive  weapon 
of  those  to  whom  is  denied  physical  supremacy,  but  who 
have  a  world  to  conquer  and  ends  to  gain.  Who  has  not 
felt  that  charm?  Who  has  not  marvelled  at  the  skill  with 
which  it  is  displayed  for  the  attainment  of  inevitable  and  nec- 
essary ends?  Few  more  profound  observations  have  been 
made  than  that  of  our  always  serious  humorist,  Oliver  Wen- 
dell Holmes,  who  says  in  effect  that  the  woman  who  has  not 
succeeded  in  building  about  her  for  the  radius  of  a  few  yards 
at  least,  an  atmosphere  of  charm,  has  missed  the  point  of  her 
being.  This,  first  and  foremost,  is  the  impression  which  the 
feminine  has  made  upon  our  race,  and  with  it,  consciousness, 
a  keen  sense  of  the  need  and  the  opportunity  for  its  exercise, 
this  is  foremost  in  the  concept  with  which  we  have  to  deal. 

And  now  turn  to  our  Sibyls  and  see  if  it  is  there.  Take  not 
the  terrible  Cumaea  nor  the  engrossed  and  absorbed  Persica. 
Take  those  who  in  years  and  form  might  more  appropriately 
manifest  the  qualities  we  have  mentioned.  Is  the  great- 
eyed,  wondering,  anxious  Delphica  smiling  to  win  your  favor, 


41 6  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

frowning  to  make  you  keep  your  place  ?  Does  the  pathos  of 
the  Libyca  remind  you  of  this  feminine  charm  ?  Is  she  look- 
ing for  worlds  to  conquer  ?  We  have  but  to  ask  these  ques- 
tions to  realize  what  an  immense  gulf  separates  these  creations 
of  Michelangelo's  imagination  from  the  human  counterpart 
which  furnishes  but  the  outward  symbol  of  his  thought.  Lost 
to  all  feminine  interests  and  to  all  feminine  impulses  are  these 
mighty  creatures  that  instead  of  the  feminine  are  filled  with 
the  divine. 

This  is  precisely  Michelangelo's  art.  A  realist,  we  saw, 
and  when  there  is  no  occasion  for  modifying  the  Hneaments  of 
nature,  none  was  more  terribly,  more  ruthlessly  true.  But 
such  isa  deceptive  use  of  the  term.  Absolutely,  utterly  an 
idealist,  he  would  as  unhesitatingly  modify  proportions  and 
attitudes-,' recking  not  of  the  humanly  possible,  caring  only 
to  express  his  thought.  He  just  as  unhesitatingly  empties 
the  human  of  its  commonplace  content  to  fill  it  with  those 
vaster  impulses  that  alone  give  his  work  significance.  The 
human,  the  natural,  serves  the  purpose  of  supernatural  and 
superhuman  suggestion.  That  is  the  essence  of  Michel- 
angelo and  the  supreme  triumph  of  art. 

It  will  not  do  to  leave  the  Chapel,  however,  without  notic- 
ing the  other  figures  that  crowd  the  ceiling  where  we  have 
named  alone  the  chief.  The  so-called  decorative  figures 
(C  131,  132, 133),  four  of  which  are  grouped  at  as  many  corners 
of  each  of  the  smaller  panels,  filling  out  the  space  to  the  width 
of  the  broader  panel  next,  are  most  inadequately  named. 
They  alone  among  the  figures  on  the  ceiling  are  privileged  to 
be  nameless,  a  privilege  which  the  true  artist  would  always 
prefer  but  which  he  must  usually  sacrifice  for  the  hardness  of 
men's  hearts.  A  name  upon  a  work  of  art  is  almost  always 
misleading.  Upon  a  work  of  the  highest  art  it  is  usually  pro- 
foundly so.  It  is  impossible  to  use  a  name  around  which 
throng  historic  associations  without  sending  our  thought  off 
on  alien  lines,  suggesting  thoughts  accidentally  associated 


C  132,  Decorative  Figure,  Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


41 8  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

with  the  name  in  our  own  experience.  Only  by  leaving  art  to 
tell  its  own  message  in  its  own  way  is  it  possible  for  the  artist 
to  crowd  out  irrelevancies.  But,  alas,  his  message  is  too 
unintelligible,  his  language  too  obscure  to  us  trained  in  a  for- 
eign tongue,  and  so,  despairing  of  giving  his  meaning  in  his 
own  way,  he  gives  us  his  meaning  in  another  way,  and  mixed 
wdth  other  meanings  which  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  exclude. 
In  these  figures,  scattered  freely  about  upon  the  ceiling, 
Michelangelo  has  in  some  sense,  therefore,  his  supreme 
opportunity.  There  is  nothing  to  mislead  us.  What  do 
they  represent  ?  At  the  risk  of  incurring  the  very  danger  we 
have  deprecated,  it  may  help  us  to  suggest  that  their  value, 
as  indeed  the  value  of  all  the  rest,  is  in  the  expression  of  signifi- 
cant human  moods.  The  meaning  of  every  true  work  of  art 
in  the  last  analysis  is  a  mood,  never  an  intellectual  proposi- 
tion, never  a  mere  historic  fact.  These  are  pure  art,  because 
they  express  pure  mood;  nothing  else.  It  is  astonishing,  as 
we  gaze  upon  them,  to  see  the  range  of  Michelangelo's  genius. 
Emphatically,  overwhelmingly  prophetic  in  his  tempera- 
ment, sombre  in  the  natural  direction  of  his  thought,  he  had 
a  mood  that  is  easily  distinguished  amongst  the  multitude 
that  life  has  taught  us  to  know.  But  the  things  that  he 
knew  not  in  his  own  self,  he  seems  to  have  perfectly  appreci- 
ated in  his  capacity  as  an  observer  of  mankind.  How  perfectly 
he  distinguishes  between  pusillanimous  and  heroic  despair ! 
With  equal  certainty  he  gives  us  the  joyous^  rollicking  mood 
the  Greek  knew  so  well,  that  joy  in  physical  existence  un- 
troubled by  spiritual  suggestion  or  calm. 

"  How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living  !     How  fit  to  employ 
All  the  mind  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  with  joy  ! " 

Or  again,  take  the  delicate  youth  that  sits,  crowned  with 
laurel,  his  dreamy  eyes  following  his  mind  to  things  far 
away  (C  133).  The  Poetic  Mood  perhaps  we  may  call  it,  or 
another,  less  poetic,  the  Pensive  Mood,  if  names  help  us. 


■irf*l 


C  133,  Decorative  Figure,  Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


420  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

They  may  hinder  more  than  help,  for  there  are  moods  by  the 
thousand  where  we  have  names  but  by  the  score.  Or,  finally 
(the  Hst  is  long  and  cannot  be  too  carefully  followed  out  by 
the  thoughtful  student)  (C  131),  let  us  note  the  youth  who 
leans  upon  a  bunch  of  colossal  acorns.  The  attitude  is 
characterized  by  relaxation  and  repose  of  body  and  spirit. 
The  face  again  is  singularly  beautiful,  first  cousin  to  the  beau- 
tiful Libyca.  The  figure  is  the  supreme  triumph  of  the  nude, 
the  much  prized  Adam  itself  no  whit  superior.  The  eyes  are 
dreamy,  and  again,  be  it  carefully  noted,  the  face  on  second 
glance  is  tinged  with  unconscious  pathos,  a  pathos  more 
significant  because  unconscious.  And  here  we  may  pause  to 
remark  that  it  is  only  -the  pathos  which  is  temperamental, 
which  is  so  deep  seated  in  character  that  it  is  a  background 
upon  which  all  oth^r-  moods  are  cast,  that  is  significant  in 
art.  Few  things  are  more  worthless  than  the  April  shower  of 
grief,  oftentimes  vulgarly  obtrusive  and  selfish,  which  deluges 
the  victim  of  some  temporary  accident.  This  is  one  of  the 
unsightly  things  to  be  kept  at  home  until  the  eyes,  red  with 
weeping,  have  regained  presentableness.  To  portray  these 
accidents  of  life  in  art  is  the  quintessence  of  bad  taste.  It  is 
the  sufficient  condemnation  of  the  Baroque  sculpture  which 
for  a  century  and  a  half,  alleging  Michelangelo  as  its  warrant, 
revelled  in  an  orgy  of  cheap  tragedy  which  the  wholesome  spirit 
loathes.  But  the  pathos  that  tinges  the  imagination  with  a 
somber  hue,  which  predisposes  the  individual  to  feel  the  great 
world's  suffering,  and  to  give  it  the  solace  of  an  ever-ready 
sympathy,  as  the  surest  alleviation  of  the  pains  of  existence, 
is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  human  traits.  This  was  the 
beauty  of  Michelangelo's  character.  It  is  the  all  but  univer- 
sal beauty  of  his  art.  In  this  youth  we  have  perhaps  the 
finest  expression  of  this  most  frequent  of  Michelangelo's 
themes.  If  names  will  help  us  here  to  hold  a  memory  fast, 
we  will  take  the  risk.  Down  in  the  great  corridors  of  the 
Vatican  there  is  a  lovely  statue  whose  pure  and  placid  beauty 


C  131,  Decorative  Figure,  Ceiling,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


422  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

draws  us  irresistibly  back  to  the  great  days  of  Greek  art. 
The  proud  possessors  of  this  mighty  collection  would  fain 
indicate  that  it  symbolizes  the  spirit  that  broods  over  all. 
They  have  called  it  the  Genius  of  the  Vatican.  As  we  stand 
beneath  this  vast  creation  of  Michelangelo  and  see  in  all  its 
variety  one  unbroken  unity,  as  we  see  in  its  many  hues  one 
all-embracing  dominant  tint,  we  may  perhaps  remind  our- 
selves of  the  thing  we  need  most  to  remember  if  we  call  this 
beautiful  youth  the  Genius  of  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

But  why  the  acorns  upon  which  he  leans?  The  question 
may  seem  trivial  following  such  considerations,  but  it  is 
suggestive.  The  great  Julius  belonged  to  a  family  named 
della  Rovere  —  of  the  Oak.  Michelangelo  was  nowise  un- 
conscious of  the  debt  that  he  owed  to  Julius,  both  as  his 
patron  and  his  protector  in  the  carrying  out  of  this  much 
menaced  undertaking.  With  all  his  faults  he  realized  in 
him  a  sympathy  nowhere  else  to  be  found,  and  most  necessary 
to  him.  When  Raphael  painted  the  great  apartments  of  the 
Vatican,  he  portrayed  the  Pope  on  almost  every  wall ;  carried 
in  his  sedan  chair,  kneeling  before  the  altar,  the  great  Julius 
appears  again  and  again.  But  in  Michelangelo's  assemblage 
of  prophets  and  sibyls  there  was  no  place  for  a  pope,  not  even 
for  a  Julius.  Yet  gratitude  and  recognition  was  there,  and 
hence  this  figure,  like  others  here  and  there,  leans  upon  a 
bunch  of  colossal  acorns,  suggestive,  without  obtrusion,  of 
the  patron  to  whom  he  owed  so  much.  We  would  like  to 
enter  the  Vatican  that  memorable  morning,  following  the 
tottering  form  of  the  stern  old  pope,  and  gaze  with  him  upon 
this  ineffable  youth  and  upon  this  reminder  of  his  own  part 
in  this  incomparable  creation.  Let  us  hope  that  the  stern 
old  gray  eye  moistened  with  tears  of  recognition  as  it  did  not 
in  the  presence  of  the  blazoned  walls  of  Raphael. 

One  thing  more,  and  this  the  last  for  us,  as  the  last  in  time. 
It  is  impossible,  as  we  stand  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  itself,  to 
see  to  advantage,  or  to  heed  in  this  mighty  assemblage,  the 


The  Great  Pope,  His  Tomb  and  His  Chapel     425 

small  curving  pictures  in  the  spaces  between  the  windows 
above  the  side  walls,  nor  yet  the  ceiling  decorations  in  the 
tiny  triangular  spaces  in  the  cross  vaults.  They  were  last 
executed,  and  in  some  sense  least  important,  but  as  showing 
the  stupendous  progress  of  Michelangelo's  technique  they 
are  in  some  ways  best  of  all.  They  represent  the  ancestors 
of  the  Hebrew  kings  (C  129,  130),  but  Michelangelo  has 
passed  quite  beyond  anything  like  Uteralism.  They  are  a 
series  of  suggestions  from  a  now  perfectly  unfettered  fancy, 
endowed  with  a  supreme  resource.  Think  of  the  Battle  of 
Pisa  and  the  sculptured  outlines  of  the  Holy  Family  with 
which  our  artist's  career  as  a  painter  began.  And  now  turn 
to  these  walls  at  which  a  Rembrandt  would  have  gazed  with 
fascination,  the  figures  half  emerging  from  the  transparent 
shadow,  the  wondering  gaze  of  the  maiden  into  the  mystery 
which  is  symbolized  by  the  darkness  about  her,  the  magic 
of  light  and  shadow  to  whose  spiritual  suggestion  our  minds  are 
so  susceptible,  has  seldom  been  more  potently  employed.  It 
is  this  most  abstract  aspect  of  nature  that  is  most  directly 
spiritual  in  its  influence  upon  our  spirits.  Of  all  this  the 
sculptor  knows  and  can  know  nothing.  The  superiority 
which  Michelangelo  claimed  for  that  art  rests  upon  other 
things,  and  is  one  which  the  painter  can  easily  match  by  this 
his  supreme  privilege.  The  mystery  of  these  shadowed  hints 
more  than  anticipates  the  great  conjurer  of  the  north.  Stud- 
ied in  reproduction  they  are  perhaps  the  most  mood-creating 
of  all  Michelangelo's  creations.  The  unwilling  artist  had 
found  perhaps  the  best  medium  for  the  expression  of  those 
moods  which  most  distinguish  his  art. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ART   TRANSCENDENT 

Michelangelo  seems  to  have  finished  the  great  Pieta  at  the 
age  of  twenty-eight,  the  David  at  thirty-one,  and  the  Sistine 
CeiHng  at  thirty-seven.  There  still  remained  to  him  more 
than  fifty  years  of  life,  during  nearly  all  of  which  he  was  in 
such  condition  of  body  and  mind  that  he  might  have  continued 
to  work  at  his  calling.  Throughout  this  long  period,  too,  he 
was  unhesitatingly  recognized  by  all  as  the  chief  artist  of 
Italy,  the  recognition  falling  little  short  of  adoration  on  the 
part  of  those  most  competent  to  judge.  When  we  remember 
farther  that  the  period  continued  the  policy  of  liberal  patron- 
age of  the  arts,  and  that  his  enemies  and  his  only  possible 
rivals  were  speedily  removed  by  death,  we  cannot  but  look 
with  amazement  upon  the  paucity  of  achievement.  Only 
twice  during  this  half  century  was  he  employed  upon  a  se- 
rious commission  of  painting  or  sculpture,  and  only  once  did 
he  bring  the  work  to  completion.  This  is  not  the  place  to 
discuss  the  reasons  for  this  tragic  waste  of  the  powers  of  the 
world's  supreme  artist.  The  character  of  the  works  executed 
or  begun  in  this  period  speaks  volumes  as  to  the  conditions 
under  which  the  artist  was  compelled  to  work  in  these  later 
days.  It  was  one  of  the  most  troubled  periods  that  Italy  has 
known  in  her  troubled  career.  The  uncertainties  of  the  sit- 
uation were  aggravated  by  the  extreme  difficulty  of  personal 
adjustment  between  Michelangelo  and  those  with  whom  he 
had  necessarily  to  deal,  a  difficulty  amounting  to  impossibil- 
ity in  at  least  one  pontificate  which  gave  to  the  great  artist 
but  menial,  not  to  say  humiliating  employment.     To  all  of 

4.26 


Art  Transcendent  427 

this  must  be  added  that  fact  that  the  building  of  St.  Peter's 
in  Rome  and  of  lesser  buildings  in  Florence  absorbed  the  ener- 
gies of  the  time,  even  to  the  extent  of  diverting  Michelangelo's 
energies  from  his  chosen  art  to  architecture,  to  our  everlast- 
ing loss  and  regret.  With  Michelangelo's  achievements  in 
architecture  we  shall  not  here  concern  ourselves.  We  have 
still  to  consider  one  great  work  in  painting  and  one  or  two 
unfinished  but  colossal  undertakings  in  sculpture  which  pre- 
cede and  follow  the  former.  It  will  be  convenient  for  us  to 
consider  first  the  painting,  the  famous  Last  Judgment,  for 
which  we  must  again  return  to  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

(C  134)  The  Last  Judgment,  perhaps  the  most  famous  paint- 
ing in  the  world,  was  completed  by  Michelangelo  at  the  age  of 
sixty-six,  nearly  thirty  years  after  the  completion  of  the 
Sistine  Ceiling.  Its  message  is  the  message  of  another  time, 
and  it  voices,  let  us  freely  confess,  a  different  spirit.  Long 
years  have  passed,  years  of  disappointment  and  tragedy. 
Julius  had  long  since  been  gathered  to  his  fathers,  and  the 
great  tomb  that  was  to  commemorate  his  character  was  still 
a  project,  dwindling  with  time  and  with  the  lessening  influ- 
ence of  his  family.  Another  pope  had  sat  in  the  Chair  of 
St.  Peter,  again  potent  but  unfriendly,  disliking  above  all 
else  the  haunting  spiritual  suggestion  of  Michelangelo's 
work,  so  uncongenial  to  his  pleasures  and  his  temperament. 
Florence  had  fallen  under  the  attack  of  his  even  less  worthy 
successor,  and  the  liberties  that  Savonarola  had  taught  the 
freedom-loving  Michelangelo  to  regard  as  the  necessities  of 
existence,  had  been  extinguished  forever.  Odious  tasks  had 
been  imposed  upon  the  despairing  artist,  some  of  them  menial 
and  unworthy,  others  prostituting  his  talent  to  the  com- 
memoration of  despicable  and  hated  things.  He  gazes  upon 
life  now  stretching  behind  him  and  upon  an  uncertain  future, 
brief  and  ever  briefer,  with  no  hope  that  the  ambitions  of  his 
youth  are  destined  to  fulfillment.  Nor  was  the  new  occu- 
pant of  the  Chair  of  St.  Peter  one  to  redeem  the  faults  of  his 


^% 


C  134,  The  Last  Judgment.     East  Wall,  Sistine  Chapel,  Vatican,  Rome. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


Art  Transcendent  429 

predecessors  or  win  the  artist's  respect.  Paul  III,  the  ambi- 
tious representative  of  a  powerful  and  unscrupulous  family, 
a  fox  in  his  low  and  cunning  diplomacy,  a  hypocrite  in  his 
thinly  disguised  immorality,  now  commanded  in  no  uncertain 
terms  the  services  of  the  unwilling  artist.  The  Last  Judg- 
ment, covering  the  great  end  of  the  Chapel  entirely,  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  one  stupendous  composition,  so  much  in  the 
spirit  of  the  sophisticated  taste  of  his  age,  is  the  result.  It  is 
the  mockery  of  fate  that  this  work  has  been  lauded  as  Michel- 
angelo's supreme  achievement ;  that  it  has  been  studied  by  the 
artists  of  a  later  time  as  the  model  for  all  purposes  and  all 
temperaments.  Michelangelo  at  his  best  is  not  the  model  for 
other  purposes  and  other  temperaments,  perhaps  we  may  say, 
for  any  other  purpose  or  any  other  temperament,  for  he  is  of 
all  artists  most  unique  and  inimitable.  His  manner  is  mon- 
strous when  used  for  lesser  things  and  dictated  by  a  different 
spirit.  But  alas,  in  this  work,  his  manner,  even  in  his  own 
hands,  is  used  for  other  things,  and  is  dictated  by  another 
spirit.  We  will  not  waste  our  time  or  scatter  our  attention  by 
repeating  the  unworthy  jokes  that  are  told  about  this  immor- 
tal work,  the  petty  prudery  of  the  court  officials  that  vainly 
whitened  the  place  that  was  full  of  dead  men's  bones,  —  the 
repainting  of  Michelangelo's  work,  even  in  his  own  lifetime, 
in  deference  to  these  petty  objections.  It  will  suffice  us 
briefly  to  notice  two  great  characteristics  of  the  work  which  we 
cannot  ignore.  First  of  all,  the  artist  has  shown  a  mastery 
that  is  worthy  of  all  praise,  in  covering  the  vast  space  in  a 
single  composition  which,  after  all,  revealed  itself  as  a  unit. 
The  titanic  figures  in  the  foreground  are  followed  by  lesser 
figures  behind,  and  out  of  the  misty  background  comes 
trooping  the  innumerable  host  up  to  the  grand  assize.  One 
critic,  sympathetic,  but  strangely  forgetful  of  what  had  gone 
before,  speaks  of  this  as  the  supreme  merit  of  the  picture,  and 
adds  that  this  art  of  misty  background  and  immeasurable 
suggestion  is  the  art  that  is  Michelangelo's  own.    Think  of 


430  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

it  !  This  man,  whose  first  pictures  were  but  sculptured 
groups,  padded  about  by  irrelevant  things,  this  man  who 
knew  no  atmosphere,  no  shadow,  no  suggestion,  this  man  has 
now  so  impressed  the  imagination  of  posterity  that  the  extrem- 
est  application  of  this  very  art  is  instantly  recognized  as 
his  by  right.  It  is  in  fact  an  art  of  which  he  was  fully  master, 
but  the  last  which  he  mastered,  the  one  most  alien  to  his 
chosen  medium. 

But,  conceding  all  that  may  be  claimed  for  the  marvelous- 
ness  of  this  great  composition,  its  unity  under  almost  impossi- 
ble difficulties,  and,  above  all  things,  its  limitless  suggestion 
as  the  eye  loses  itself  down  the  dim  vista  of  figure  and  cloud, 
the  work  is  in  the  deepest  sense,  the  sense  which  Michelangelo 
himself  would  have  called  the  deepest,  a  colossal,  a  tragic 
failure.  The  mighty  nudes  that  stand  up  before  us  in  the 
foreground  are  not  like  the  youth  that  leans  upon  the  bunch  of 
acorns,  vehicles  for  spiritual  suggestion.  Their  faces  are  not 
spiritual,  the  moods  that  animate  them  are  not  exalted  and 
grand.  On  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left  there  is  crass 
materialism,  that  if  it  speaks  of  the  mastery  of  the  material, 
speaks  also  of  forgetfulness  of  the  spirit.  These  nudes  are 
exaggerated,  say  some.  Yes,  but  not  more  than  the  Cumaean 
Sibyl ;  but  there  there  is  purpose,  exalted,  spiritual  purpose,  in 
the  hyperbole  that  so  magnificently  serves  that  end.  But  here 
there  is  no  purpose.  Large,  gross,  and  carnal,  they  weigh 
heavily  upon  the  spirit  which,  in  the  presence  of  Michel- 
angelo, fain  would  soar.  It  is  these  needlessly  exaggerated 
masses  of  unspiritual  flesh  that  were  the  bane  of  Rubens  and 
were  responsible  for  his  Descent  from  the  Cross  which  so 
inconceivably  shines  by  this  worst  of  borrowed  lustres.  An 
orgy  of  flesh  was  the  result  of  Michelangelo's  influence, 
epitomized  here.  Such  would  perhaps  have  been  the  result 
in  any  case,  for  one  can  well  imagine  how  the  painters  of  a 
later  time,  even  without  this  incentive,  would  have  studied 
the  reclining  youth  or  the  Cumaean  Sibyl  with  attention  to 


Art  Transcendent  431 


body  rather  than  to  spirit.  Pitiful  was  the  device  by  which 
the  "breeches-maker  "  artist  of  the  day  covered  with  common- 
place draperies  these  figures  that  shocked  prurient  taste,  but 
more  pitiful  was  the  fact  that  here  for  once  Michelangelo 
failed  to  redeem  the  body  by  the  supremacy  of  the  spirit. 
Here  is  tragedy,  not  triumph;  tragedy  easy  to  excuse  but 
impossible  to  disguise. 

The  last  great  tragedy  of  Michelangelo's  life  is  associated 
with  his  old  benefactors,  the  much  detested  Medici.  When,  a 
year  after  the  completion  of  the  Sistine  Ceiling,  Pope  Julius 
died,  Michelangelo  not  only  lost  his  one  great  patron,  but  his 
successor,  Leo  X,  proved  thoroughly  unfriendly  throughout 
his  pontificate.  Leo  was  the  second  son  of  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  born  in  the  same  year  as  Michelangelo  and  there- 
fore his  companion  during  the  two  years  that  Michelangelo 
lived  under  his  father's  roof.  If  we  may  think  of  Michel- 
angelo as  in  a  sense  the  adopted  son  of  Lorenzo,  he  was  in  so 
far  the  adoptive  brother  of  Leo.  Yet  the  eight  years  of 
his  pontificate  were  the  most  humiliating  of  Michelangelo's 
experience,  and  we  search  in  vain  for  a  trace  of  sympathy 
between  the  two.  We  might  be  tempted  to  trace  the  origin 
of  this  antipathy  to  some  irritation  growing  out  of  this  very 
experience,  perhaps  to  resentment  of  this  son  of  the  house 
at  the  privileges  enjoyed  by  an  outsider.  Michelangelo's 
irritating  manner  in  his  youth  would  abundantly  supplement 
any  such  surmise.  But  a  deeper  cause  lies  in  the  character 
of  the  pope  who,  inheriting  both  the  glorious  traditions  of  the 
Medicean  house  and  the  papacy  as  organized  by  Julius,  was 
content  to  fritter  away  both  on  personal  indulgence  and  friv- 
olous dilettantism.  The  frivolous  was  not  unknown  among 
the  varied  interests  of  Lorenzo ;  it  was  clearly  the  dominant 
interest  of  his  son.  Still,  he  lacked  neither  ability  nor  force, 
and  with  all  his  indifference  to  the  highest  interests  with 
which  his  house  had  been  identified,  he  never  forgot  the  mate- 
rial interests  of  his  family,  and  while  still  cardinal,  in  the  last 


432  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


days  of  Julius,  he  had  forced  their  return  to  Florence  in  a 
campaign  the  brutalities  of  which  seem  to  have  shocked  an 
age  accustomed  to  plunder  and  massacre.  What  Michel- 
angelo's sentiments  were  at  this  fall  of  the  government  of 
Savonarola  and  the  extinction  of  liberty  so  dear  to  him,  we 
can  infer  from  the  events  of  a  later  time.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
for  a  decade  he  lived  in  intermittent  fear  of  violence,  and  was 
kept  in  uncongenial  employment  by  a  pope  who  could  not 
ignore  his  greatness,  nor  yet  understand  or  sympathize  with 
his  spirit. 

In  the  last  year  of  the  pope's  life  a  new  actor  appears  upon 
the  scene,  the  Cardinal  Giulio  de'  Medici,  also  a  Medicean,  a 
son  of  Lorenzo's  brother  who  was  assassinated,  and  adopted 
after  his  father's  death  by  the  great  Lorenzo.  He  was  there- 
fore virtually  another  son  of  the  famous  household  in  which 
Michelangelo  had  been  a  member  and  like  the  pope  his 
former  companion  and  adoptive  brother.  His  relation  to 
Michelangelo  was  to  be  hardly  more  favorable  than  that  of 
Leo,  but  it  was  better  motived  and  more  sympathetic.  After 
a  brief  interval  of  twenty  months,  he  followed  Leo  in  the 
papacy,  which  he  held  for  eleven  years  as  Clement  VII,  the 
most  disastrous  years  that  Rome  has  known  since  the  fall 
of  the  empire.  Not  only  did  these  Medicean  popes  witness 
the  dismemberment  of  Christendom,  Leo  losing  Germany 
under  Luther  and  Clement  losing  England  under  Henry 
VIII,  but  Rome  was  sacked  and  virtually  destroyed  in  the 
struggle,  with  resulting  loss  to  her  accumulated  art  and  worst 
of  all  with  the  most  serious  interruption  of  her  art  activities. 
It  was  as  cardinal  that  the  later  Clement,  always  primarily 
interested  in  the  welfare  of  his  house,  inaugurated  the  great 
work  which  was  to  continue  through  his  lifetime  and  thence- 
forth remain  unfinished,  the  New  Sacristy  of  San  Lorenzo, 
designed  as  a  Mausoleum  for  the  members  of  his  family.  The 
work  seems  never  to  have  appealed  to  Michelangelo,  and  it  is 
certain  that  he  took  it  up  under  compulsion  and  dropped  it  as 


Art  Transcendent  433 


soon  as  he  could.  He  had  no  idea,  however,  at  the  outset, 
how  bitterly  his  feelings  were  to  be  intensified  by  subsequent 
events.  The  eariier  sketches  make  it  plain  that  the  work 
was  at  the  outset  conceived  in  a  different  spirit  from  that 
which  later  came  to  characterize  it.  The  reason  for  this 
change  is  to  be  found  in  the  revolt  of  Florence  from  the  Medici 
during  the  ebb  of  Clement's  power,  a  revolt  in  which  Michel- 
angelo certainly  sympathized,  followed  by  the  siege  of  the 
city  by  mercenaries,  its  stout  resistance  in  which  Michel- 
angelo participated,  its  betrayal  to  the  Medici  and  the  formal 
and  final  estabhshment  of  the  family  in  the  person  of  a  con- 
temptible and  vindictive  bastard,  as  ruler  of  Florence.  To 
Michelangelo  this  meant  the  extinction  of  Florence.  History 
was  to  prove  him  right.  From  that  day,  Florence  has  never 
produced  a  great  work  or  a  great  man. 

It  was  with  all  the  potential  hatred  of  tyranny  and  meanness 
developed  into  painful  consciousness  that  Michelangelo  was 
driven  back  to  his  task  by  pope  and  duke.  What  his  emo- 
tions were  it  is  difficult  for  tamer  natures  to  picture.  Doubt- 
less they  varied  much,  and  the  storms  of  passionate  irrecon- 
cilableness  which  loom  so  large  in  the  record,  alternated 
with  moods  of  that  loyalty  to  his  rulers  and  to  his  art  which 
was  so  deeply  implanted  in  his  nature.  But  the  one  dominant 
characteristic  of  the  work  is  the  anguish  and  protest  of  a  soul 
unreconcilable.  Slowly  the  work  dragged  on  for  four  years 
more,  when  Pope  Clement  died,  and  the  artist  flinging  down 
his  chisel,  left  Florence  never  to  return  save  under  pall  and 
bearers.  They  did  not  know  that  he  would  not  return,  per- 
haps he  did  not  know.  They  waited,  then  reminded  him, 
asked  him,  urged  him,  besought  him.  When  advancing 
years  and  changing  interests  at  last  made  it  clear  that  ,he 
would  not  return,  they  begged  that  he  would  furnish  designs 
to  some  one  else  for  the  completion  of  the  work.  He  did  not, 
perhaps  could  not.  Only  when  all  hope  of  his  further  partici- 
pation had  vanished,  was  the  unfinished  work  supplemented 


434  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 


by  another  and  given  that  degree  of  presentableness  in  which 
we  now  see  it.  The  incompleteness  of  the  work  and  the  co- 
operation of  another  artist,  apparently  unguided  by  Michel- 
angelo, makes  it  uncertain  that  the  work  as  we  now  have  it, 
expresses  his  intention.  Still,  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  these 
figures  as  Michelangelo  left  them,  could  have  been  used  other- 
wise than  as  we  now  see  them.  Details  might  have  been 
different,  but  not  fundamentals.  So  far  as  our  judgment  has 
to  deal  with  principles,  we' shall  hardly  do  Michelangelo  in- 
justice if  we  judge  him  by  the  work  as  it  stands. 

These  tombs  have  been  more  often  and  harshly  criticized 
than  anything  else  in  the  work  of  the  great  artist.  Even  his 
devoted  admirers  have  often  been  unable  to  reconcile  them 
with  the  commonly  accepted  canons  of  sculpture,  even  with 
principles  which  Michelangelo  is  known  to  have  approved. 
The  usual  judgment  is  expressed  by  a  sympathetic  critic  when 
he  alludes  to  them  as  ''those  magnificent  failures,  the  Medi- 
cean  Tombs  "  (C  455,  459).  Magnificent  they  undeniably  are 
in  their  splendid  manifestation  of  the  ,great  sculptor's  power, 
in  the  repose  of  their  cyclonic  passion,  the  ease  with  which 
they  stir  the  deepest  emotions  of  the  heart.  But  in  their  sur- 
prising disregard  of  some  of  the  most  fundamental  require- 
ments of  sculpture,  it  is  difficult,  according  to  any  ordinary 
standard,  to  characterize  them  otherwise  than  as  failures. 
Yet  from  this  ordinary  judgment  the  writer  most  earnestly 
dissents,  believing  that  the  exceptional  conditions  under 
which  the  artist  labored  and  his  exceptional  temperament 
required  exceptional  forms  of  expression,  and  yet  that  such 
expression  was  justified  by  the  highest  considerations  of  art, 
and  these  exceptional  means  legitimized  thereby. 

The  criticisms  are  easy  and  some  of  them  fundamental. 
The  statues  which  bear  the  names  of  Lorenzo  and  Giuliano 
(not  the  distinguished  Mediceans  of  those  names)  (C  456, 
460)  are  said  not  to  resemble  these  men,  and  the  observer  is 
strangely  puzzled  to  know  why.     Passing  this,  however,  as 


Art  Transcendent  435 


a  pardonable  caprice,  the  critic  is  struck  by  the  startling 
instability  of  the  figures  upon  the  sarcophagus,  Night  and  Day 
upon  that  of  Giuliano  (C  457)  and  even  more,  the  Morning 
and  Evening  Twilight  upon  that  of  Lorenzo  (C  461).  Of 
all  statues  known  to  us  up  to  this  time,  none  have  so  utterly 
defied  the  law  of  gravity.  Held  upon  the  sloping  top  of  the 
sarcophagus  at  the  most  slippery  point  by  bolts  or  other 
invisible  means  which  it  is  impossible  for  art  to  permit  the 
mind  to  contemplate,  they  seem  plunging  to  their  destruc- 
tion and  that  of  all  about  them.  The  following  century  was 
to  give  us  plenty  of  such  violations  of  the  law  of  gravity, 
which  justify  themselves  by  Michelangelo's  example,  but  his 
practice  in  both  earlier  and  later  work  is- conspicuously  against 
such  license.  We  have  seen  by  what  extraordinary  means  he 
sought  to  give  stability  to  the  great  Pieta.  Less  conspicuous 
but  equally  careful  is  his  effort  in  the  case  of  the  Moses,  of 
which  the  great  sculptor,  Rodin,  says  enthusiastically :  "You 
could  roll  that  down  hill  and  not  break  off  any  essential  part." 
No  artist  up  to  Michelangelo's  time  had  been  so  careful  to 
maintain  the  ''integrity  of  mass"  as  he.  Yet  here  he  has 
completely  and  wantonly  sacrificed  it. 

Pursuing  our  observation  farther,  we  discover  another  vio- 
lation of  accepted  law,  at  first  sight  easily  confounded  with 
the  foregoing,  but  really  quite  distinct.  It  is  the  sacrifice  of 
psychic  repose.  In  considering  the  instabiUty  of  the  figure 
of  Twilight  we  were  thinking  of  it  as  a  stone  whose  huge 
mass  and  weight  threatens  to  fall  with  crushing  force  on  what- 
ever may  be  beneath.  Let  us  now  for  a  moment  think  of 
these  figures  as  persons,  and  see  how  they  seem  to  feel  and 
what  feelings  they  suggest  to  us  in  consequence.  The  figure 
of  Night  from  the  Tomb  of  Giuliano  (C  457)  will  best  serve  the 
purpose  of  this  inquiry.  It  purports  to  be  a  woman  sleeping. 
But  how  long  would  a  person  sleep  in  that  attitude  ?  If  she 
fell  asleep,  what  would  happen  to  the  bent  leg,  to  the  unsup- 
ported elbow,  to  the  head  and  neck  ?    The  slightest  considera- 


C  455,  Tomb  of  Giuliano  de'  Medici.    New  Sacristy,  S.  Loren/.o, 
Florence.    Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


C  459,  Tomb  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici.    New   Sacristy,  S.  Lorenzo, 
Florence.    Michelangelo,  1475-1504. 


<     (  c 


C  457,  Night  (Detail,  Tomb  of  Giuliano  de'  Medici), 

New  Sacristy,  S.  Lorenzo,  Florence. 

Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


C  461,  Tvviligiii  i^Deiail,  Tomb  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici). 

New  Sacristy,  S,  Lorenzo,  Florence. 

Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


C  456,  Giuliano  de'  Medici  (Detail.Tomb).    New  Sacristy, 
S.  Lorenzo,  Florence.    Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


C  460,  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  (Detail,  Tomb).    New  Sacristy, 
S.  Lorenzo,  Florence.    Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


442  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

tion  will  convince  us  that  none  of  these  postures  could  persist 
in  sleep.  And  if  by  some  chance  a  woman  should  sleep  for 
half  an  hour  in  such  a  posture,  how  would  she  feel  when  she 
awoke  ?  What  would  be  the  sensations  of  neck  and  elbow  and 
wrist  ?  The  suggestion  is  painful  in  the  extreme  and  as  such 
is  apparently  a  violation  of  the  most  obvious  laws  of  art. 
When  we  consider  how  overwhelming  are  these  objections,  and 
how  flagrant  the  contradiction  between  this  and  the  artist's 
earlier  work,  we  can  appreciate  the  characterization  of  these 
works  as  "magnificent  failures." 

The  unsympathetic  critic  may  indeed  go  farther  and  re- 
mind us  that  overwrought  or  impossible  posture  is  not  un- 
known in  Michelangelo's  earlier  works.  The  Bound  Slave 
presents  a  posture  which  it  would  be  difficult  for  the  human 
figure  to  assume,  and  the  Sistine  Ceiling  is  not  wanting  in 
attitudes  which  it  would  be  difficult  for  nature  to  duplicate, 
not  to  mention  the  free  modification  of  proportions  which  we 
have  more  than  once  had  occasion  to  note.  But  these  atti- 
tudes are  one  and  all  marvellously  expressive,  and  we  find 
for  the  modified  proportions  at  least  the  justification  of  an 
obvious  purpose  quite  within  the  limits  of  art.  But  no- 
where have  we  had  postures  so  unnatural  or  so  painful,  and 
nowhere  before  have  we  had  the  least  sacrifice  of  the  great 
law  of  stability  of  stone  which  Michelangelo  has  conserved 
with  a  care  as  unprecedented  as  his  violation  of  it  seems  here 
to  be  wanton. 

We  have  already  discussed  the  difference  between  correct 
drawing,  and  good  or  expressive  drawing,  and  have  claimed 
for  the  latter  the  higher  place  in  art.  There  is  no  sacerdotal 
sanctity  about  the  human  figure.  It  is  a  language  in  the 
artist's  hands  through  which  he  is  privileged  to  express  the 
ideals  of  art.  Any  departure  from  nature  which  is  purposeless 
and  any  departure  which  obtrudes  itself  upon  consciousness 
and  cannot  be  ''kept  under"  by  the  higher  sentiments  and 
ideals  which  it  is  invoked  to  express,  is  a  mistake ;  and,  con- 


Art  Transcendent  443 


versely,  any  departure  from  nature  which  is  unnoticed  in  the 
contemplation  of  these  sentiments  and  ideals  and  which 
serves  the  better  to  express  or  emphasize  them,  is  legitimate. 
The  drill-master  may  murmur  at  this  disparagement  of  the 
canons  of  the  studio,  and  we  may  concede  that  this  is  danger- 
ous doctrine ;  it  is  none  the  less  the  irreducible  minimum  of 
the  liberty  which  art  must  claim. 

Can  we  find  any  purpose  sufficient  to  justify  this  over- 
whelming license  on  the  part  of  Michelangelo  ? 

We  might  dismiss  the  criticism  upon  the  statues  of  Giuliano 
and  Lorenzo,  that  they  are  not  portraits,  with  the  general 
observation  that  Michelangelo  did  not  make  portraits,  but 
this  leaves  them  purposeless.  If  not-  portraits,  then  what  ? 
Michelangelo  is  not  wont  to  give  us  meaningless  figures. 

The  figure  of  Giuliano  (C  456)  is  singularly  lacking  in  those 
deeper  suggestions  with  which  Michelangelo  has  made  us 
familiar.  He  is  passively  good-natured,  but  not  benevolent, 
concerned  with  things  about  him,  but  not  alert.  A  mind 
sensuous  and  objective,  he  is  concerned  with  neither  past 
nor  future,  nor  with  matters  of  other  than  immediate  import. 
Complacent  acquiescence  in  the  life  of  here  and  now,  he  is  the 
negation  of  the  larger  vision  and  the  deeper  sentiments  which 
are  everything  in  Michelangelo's  art. 

Lorenzo  opposite  (C  460)  is  a  complete  contrast.  His 
bowed  head  is  covered  by  the  helmet  whose  visor  shades  his 
face,  and  the  position  is  such  as  still  further  to  obscure  the 
features  which,  even  in  the  fullest  light,  are  vague  and  haunt- 
ing. The  popular  designation  of  '^11  Pensiero"is  a  correct 
characterization.  He  ponders.  There  is  neither  protest  nor 
pathos  in  the  face,  only  mystery,  tlie  most  haunting  and  in- 
scrutable of  any  figure  in  art. 

The  artist  seldom  has  definitely  formulated  purposes,  such 
as  we  are  continually  inclined  to  attribute  to  him.  He  is  con- 
trolled by  moods  which  he  may  or  may  not  refer  to  outward 
conditions.     In  these  moods  he  sees  certain  mental  visions 


444  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

which  harmonize  with  these  moods  or  are  at  variance  with 
them.  In  the  one  case  they  appeal  to  him,  and  in  the  other 
case  they  do  not,  though  he  may  have  no  very  definite  idea 
why.  He  may,  indeed,  assign  a  nominal  meaning  to  his 
works  which  is  quite  different  from  their  real  meaning  as  ex- 
pressed in  the  conditions  of  their  origin.  It  must  therefore 
be  with  a  full  consciousness  that  we  are  formulating  what 
Michelangelo  did  not  formulate,  that  we  venture  to  inquire 
why  Michelangelo  was  interested  in  these  figures  as  they 
presented  themselves  to  his  inner  vision.  What  fact  in  his 
surroundings  was  responsible  for  the  moods  which  these  fig- 
ures express  ?  The  answer  at  once  suggests  itself  when  we  re- 
call the  recent  return  of  the  Medici,  the  extinction  of  popular 
liberty  and  the  subjection  of  Florence  to  Medicean  rule 
in  a  particularly  odious  form.  We  have  no  difficulty  in 
imagining  that  for  most  Florentines  the  adjustment  was 
prompt  and  painless.  Their  concern  for  present  needs  ob- 
scured the  deeper  issues  which  to  a  few  seemed  big  with  the 
import  of  the  eternal  things.  To  these  few,  however,  the 
ways  of  Providence  must  indeed  have  seemed  inscrutable. 
While  the  multitude  went  about  their  affairs  pettily  cheerful, 
too  blind  to  see  that  the  sun  had  been  stricken  out  of  the  sky, 
how  many  who  remembered  the  thunderings  of  the  great 
preacher  against  iniquity  in  high  places,  who  recalled  the  heart 
searchings  of  Florentines  and  the  purification  of  private  and 
public  life  which  had  so  long  persisted,  must  have  cried  out 
in  their  anguish  of  spirit:  "How  long,  oh  Lord,  shall  iniquity 
triumph  ?  Was  Savonarola  then  not  thy  prophet,  and  carest 
thou  not  for  the  righteousness  that  he  enjoined  in  thy 
name  ?  Lo,  the  kingdom  of  the  Christ  which  we  have  sought 
to  establish  with  such  cost,  is  no  more,  and  the  iniquity 
against  which  thou  settest  thy  hand  ruleth  over  thy  chosen." 
How  inevitable  these  contrasted  moods !  How  perfectly 
expressed  in  these  two  contrasted  statues  ! 

Remembering  that  Michelangelo  was  among  the  unrecon- 


Art  Transcendent  445 


died  and  that  his  mood  was  one  of  far  more  passionate  pro- 
test than  that  of  most  even  of  the  unreconciled,  we  have  now 
not  far  to  seek  the  explanation  of  the  other  more  pronounced 
peculiarities  of  the  tombs.  Suppose  we  had  asked  Michel- 
angelo: "Why  have  you,  who  have  so  emphasized  the  law 
of  stability  in  your  creations  of  stone,  left  these  figures  to 
slide  off  into  the  abyss  ?  Why  have  you  violated  the  laws 
of  nature  and  the  laws  of  art?"  How  easily  might  he  have 
replied,  ever  brooding  upon  the  things  he  could  not  accept: 
"  Do  you  then  see  stability  around  you  ?  Is  not  everything 
sliding  off  into  the  abyss  ?  I  have  violated  the  laws  of  Na- 
ture? Has  not  Florence  violated  the  laws  of  God?  How 
else  should  I  express  the  perversion  of  law  save  through  the 
perversion  of  law  ?  " 

The  same  inquiry  may  go  farther  with  even  more  telling 
rejoinders.  "Why  this  woman  sleeping  in  such  an  impos- 
sible attitude?  Could  she  sleep  like  that?  Could  she 
rest  if  she  did  sleep?  And  these  other  figures  of  morning 
and  evening,  the  one  pain-effaced,  sinking  into  a  sleep  that 
promises  no  reviving ;  the  other  awakened  as  from  terrifying 
dreams  to  a  day  that  is  without  hope  ?  Why  this  ordeal  of 
pain  and  discomfort  in  the  presence  of  '  Kind  Nature's  sweet 
restorer'?"  How  easy  the  answer,  "Do  you  then  sleep 
sweetly  in  this  our  Florence?  Does  sleep  bring  repose  and 
restoration?  Do  you  not  take  refuge  in  sleep  from  the 
shame  of  waking,  and  awake  from  dreams  that  are  night- 
mares, to  a  day  that  is  worse  than  your  dreams  ?" 

All  such  conversations  are  imaginary  and,  it  might  be  argued, 
fanciful,  but  in  the  case  of  the  Night  we  have  strangely 
corroborative  evidence.  Familiar  and  unchallenged  is  the 
story  of  the  admiring  visitor  who  saw  the  Night  in  Michel- 
angelo's absence  and,  struck  by  its  beauty,  penciled  his  com- 
pliment upon  it.  The  lines  are  graceful  and  worthy  of  the 
poHshed  style  of  the  age  of  Lorenzo.  The  compliment  was 
undoubtedly  sincere. 


446  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

"  Night,  that  thou  seest  here  sleeping  in  so  graceful  an  attitude 
Was  car\'ed  by  an  Angel  from  this  stone.     And  since  she  sleeps  she 

is  alive. 
Dost  thou  not  believe  it  ?    Touch  her  and  she  will  awake  and  speak 

to  thee." 

Even  in  prosaic  translation  the  charm  of  this  tribute  is 
apparent.  Another  artist  would  have  felt  happy  all  day  in 
consequence.  Michelangelo  read  the  lines  and  wrote  his 
rejoinder  below.  His  lines  have  all  the  grace  of  the  other's 
with  the  rugged  power  of  the  great  Dante  of  whom  he  was  so 
passionately  fond : 

"  Well  for  me  that  I  sleep  while  shame  and  wrong  endure  around  me. 
For  me  not  to  hear,  not  to  see,  is  great  good  fortune. 
Therefore  wake  me  not,  I  pray.     Speak  softly." 

Tolerably  plain  words  these,  and  certain  to  reach  the  Medicean 
palace  before  nightfall,  where  a  diviner  would  hardly  be-  neces- 
sary for  their  interpretation. 

It  was  in  moods  like  these  that  the  great  sculptor  proceeded 
with  his  work.  It  was  such  moods  as  these  which  these 
statues  were  fitted  to  express.  Ostensibly,  their  grief  was  for 
the  death  of  the  insignificant  personalities  whom  they  com- 
memorated. Really,  they  expressed  moods  born  of  disasters 
to  Florence,  the  disappearance  of  righteousness  and  the  per- 
version of  the  divine  order.  These  moods  that  filled  the  pas- 
sionate soul  of  the  great  artist,  they  perfectly  express. 

One  question  remains  for  us,  and  this  all -important.  Are 
such  things  art?  They  are  expressive,  profound,  forceful, 
sincere,  but  are  they  beautiful?  Our  first  impulse  is  to 
shudderingly  answer,  no.  Such  conditions  do  not  please  us ; 
such  protests  are  contemplated  with  pain.  But  let  us  be 
careful.  Beauty  is  the  necessary  correlative  of  art.  If  we  lose 
sight  of  this  fundamental  fact,  we  are  a  ship  without  a  com- 
pass. But  beauty  is  not  so  simple  or  so  easily  defined  as  we 
are  wont  to  assume.  Anything  is  beautiful  which  we  would 
fain  experience  again  for  its  own  sake.    Perhaps  we  may  best 


Art  Transcendent 


447 


appreciate  the  scope  of  the  term  by  an  analogous  case. 
George  Eliot  speaks  of  a  ''sort  of  happiness  which  often  brings 
so  much  pain  with  it,  that  we  can  only  tell  it  from  pain  by  its 
being  what  we  would  choose  before  everything  else,  because  our 
souls  see  it  is  good.'*  And  so  we  may  say  of  beauty  that  in 
some  of  its  forms  it  is  so  nearly  akin  to  ugliness  that  we  can 
scarcely  tell  it  from  ugliness,  save  that  there  is  something  about 
it  that  our  souls  crave  and  tell  us  it  is  good.  If  we  are  to  lo- 
cate these  great  passionate  moods  of  Michelangelo  anywhere 
within  the  realm  of  beauty,  it  must  doubtless  be  in  these 
forms  that  are  out  on  the  confines  of  the  harsh  and  the  terrible 
but  which  our  souls  crave  and  tell  us  they  are  good. 

Do  Michelangelo's  moods  command  our  sympathy  or  not  ? 
It  matters  little  whether  we  share  his  estimate  of  the  popular 
government  of  Savonarola  or  his  detestation  for  the  degenerate 
Medicean  house.  Knowing  that  he  saw  liberty  in  the  one  and 
tyranny  in  the  other,  do  we  like  him  the  better  that  his  heart 
refused  compliance  and  even  sought  relief  in  angry  outburst, 
or  would  we  rather  he  had  made  terms  with  tyranny  ?  Few 
will  hesitate  in  answer  to  such  a  question.  The  soul  that  will 
not  compromise  and  that  refuses  to  be  consoled  for  the  loss 
of  its  ideals,  is  the  thing  that  the  heart  chiefly  delights  to 
honor. 

The  Medicean  Tombs  are  art.  They  are  transcendent  art, 
in  the  most  Uteral  sense  of  the  word,  for  they  transcend  the 
ordinary  forms  of  art  as  their  ideals  transcend  its  ordinary 
ideals.  The  laws  of  stability,  of  psychic  repose,  these  are  just 
laws,  of  apphcation  as  universal  as  are  the  laws  of  harmony 
in  music.  But  when  Wagner  seeks  a  leitmotif  to  express  sin, 
he  chooses,  —  not  a  melody  or  chord,  but  a  crashing  discord 
that  in  other  connections  would  not  be  music  at  all,  but  which 
here  serves  as  the  only  possible  expression  of  a  theme  neces- 
sary to  his  larger  composition.  So  Michelangelo  reaches 
into  the  realm  of  dissonance  for  the  means  needful  to  express 
the  vaster  music  which  he  alone  was  able  to  hear.    He  has  not 


448  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

violated  but  transcended  the  laws  of  art.  Let  us  cheerfully 
concede  that  we  have  room  in  our  sympathy  for  but  little  music 
of  this  heroic  sort,  but  we  are  infinitely  the  poorer  if  we  shut 
that  little  out. 

Michelangelo's  return  to  Rome  was  followed  by  dreary  years 
spent  upon  the  Last  Judgment  and  then  by  a  still  longer  task 
as  architect  of  St.  Peter's  which  occupied  practically  the  re- 
mainder of  his  Ufe.  In  this  last  connection  he  is  said  to  have 
worked  without  pay,  saying  that  he  would  do  this  work  for  the 
repose  of  his  soul.  His  reUgious  feeUng  deepened,  and  he  was 
heard  to  question  whether  he  ought  not  to  have  spent  his  life 
in  devotion  rather  than  in  the  frivolous  practice  of  art. 
From  this  time,  too,  date  the  poems  and  letters  which  express 
such  a  wealth  of  human  tenderness  on  the  part  of  this  man  now 
robbed  of  the  last  vestige  of  human  companionship.  He  was 
known  as  an  architect,  and  in  general,  as  a  wonderful  old 
man,  whom  all  honored  but  few  loved.  It  was  remembered 
that  he  had  painted  on  occasion,  and  though  popes  might 
come  and  popes  might  go,  he  had  made  the  great  chapel  his 
forever.  But  to  many  it  would  have  been  a  surprise  to  learn 
that  he  had  once  been  a  sculptor.  The  Drunken  Bacchus 
and  the  Cupid  still  existed  somewhere  in  private  possession, 
but  of  them  the  world  knew  nothing.  Away  in  Florence,  to  be 
sure,  there  was  the  great  David,  looking  out  upon  the  market- 
place, and  the  tombs  were  there  to  add  their  testimony,  but 
these  were  unknown  to  Rome,  awed  by  St.  Peter's  and  the 
great  Chapel.  Only  the  Pieta  and  the  Moses  were  there 
to  be  pointed  out  by  some  guide  as  ''made  by  our  Michel- 
angelo, fifty  years  ago,  before  he  found  his  real  calling." 

And  now  of  a  sudden  the  curious  were* again  aroused  by 
the  rumor  that  the  sound  of  his  chisel  was  to  be  heard  by  night 
in  his  house.  Who  could  have  given  him  a  commission  in 
this  abandoned  art?  What  could  the  commission  be?  In 
truth,  the  man  had  returned  to  the  art  of  his  choice,  just  for 
one  work  more  before  he  died ;  not  for  a  king  now  or  a  cardi- 


Art  Transcendent  449 


nal  or  a  pope ;  just  for  himself,  and  for  God,  a  work  that  was 
to  be  his  monument.  And  since  the  great  church  busied  him 
by  day,  the  old  man,  almost  sleepless,  devoted  the  night  to  his 
work,  which  none  might  see.  The  history  of  art  offers  few 
more  pathetic  pictures  than  that  of  this  old  man,  alone  with 
the  double  isolation  of  old  age  and  of  genius,  tireless  by  day  and 
sleepless  by  night,  a  candle  in  his  cap  and  the  flare  of  the 
candle  upon  the  marble  and  upon  th6  dark  shadows  about, 
working  away  upon  his  last  utterance  to  mankind.  The  work 
went  slowly  with  this  man  of  eighty  years,  for  his  eye  was 
dim  and  his  natural  force  abated.  The  hand  trembled  now, 
and  the  old-time  grip  of  iron  was  relaxed.  At  last,  we  are 
told,  the  hand  or  the  vision  failed  him,  the  blow  went  too 
deep  and  cut  into  the  figure  which  he  saw  within  the  marble. 
And  then,  seized  with  petulance  or  despair  —  in  his  old  age 
he  was  capable  of  either  —  he  grasped  his  heavy  mallet  and 
began  to  break  it  up.  But  an  old  servant  who  had  served 
him  faithfully  in  these  years  and  borne  with  his  moods,  rushed 
up  and  begged  him,  if  he  would  not  take  farther  pleasure  in 
his  work  and  complete  it,  would  he  not  give  it  to  him,  and 
slowly,  reluctantly,  the  old  man  consented.  The  slight  dam- 
age was  repaired,  and  now  behind  the  high  altar  in  the  great 
Duomo  of  Florence  it  stands,  as  he  left  it  on  that  fateful  night, 
not  marking  his  burial  place,  but  none  the  less  his  monument. 
It  should  be  \i sited  near  the  hoiir  of  noon,  before  the  western 
windows  are  flooded  with  the  afternoon  sun,  when  a  slender 
shaft  of  light  coming  from  behind  and  above  emphasizes  the 
suggestive  shadow  that  wraps  it  about. 

The  group  represents  the  Deposition  from  the  Cross  (C  464). 
The  body  of  the  Christ  is  lowered  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea 
and  received  by  the  mother  and  the  Magdalen  below.  Never 
death  so  utter,  never  form  so  helpless  as  manifested  in  this 
body  of  the  Christ.  Never  character  so  intact  in  despair  as  that 
of  the  Joseph  or  love  so  utter  as  that  of  the  mother  whose 
face  shows  so  dimly  yet  so  clearly  through  the  uncut  marble. 


^jI'm'^^^D'I^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^Hb^ 

^       ^UW^K.    '^^ 

1      '^.a^^^H 

:  '^-VJ^H 

-^i^^H 

^^B^ 

^^i]iH 

H|l 

pj|[K|^H 

^^^^^B^i^J^^ 

MKli|gH»            vH 

C  464,  The  Deposition.    Cathedral,  Florence. 
Michelangelo,  1475-1564. 


Art  Transcendent  451 


The  composition  is  harsh  Uke  a  cry  of  anguish,  but  perfect  in 
its  accord.  It  will  be  noted,  too,  that  the  old  compact  group 
returns,  for  with  all  its  pain,  Ufe  has  again  righted  itself,  and 
Michelangelo  again  tells  us  of  the  eternal  things.  There  is  an 
infinite  certitude  in  the  character  note  of  this  funeral  dirge, 
heroism  without  hope  and  love  made  perfect  in  despair  ! 

"Integer  vitae"  —  intact  of  life,  so  ran  the  poet's  praise. 
Intact  of  life,  though  all  else  fail,  so  reads  this  last  message. 
Last  words  from  such  a  man  and  uttered  with  such  delibera- 
tion should  command  more  than  the  usual  attention.  We 
shall  not  read  this  last  word  far  wrong  if  we  formulate 
Michelangelo's  philosophy  something  like  this. 

Life  is  a  failure.  The  things  you  fain  would  do  you  may  not 
do,  the  ambitions  you  cherish  you  shall  not  realize;  such 
is  the  common  lot  of  man.  Who  has  reached  the  age  of  gray 
hairs  and  cannot  look  back  on  a  pathway  strewn  with  the 
wrecks  of  cherished  plans  and  high  ambitions  ?  That  is  the 
common  lot  of  life.     Expect  no  other.     Life  is  a  failure. 

But  you  need  not  be  a  failure.  You  cannot  do  the  things 
you  fain  would  do.  One  thing  you  can  do.  You  can  give 
back  your  soul  to  God  as  he  gave  it,  unsullied  and  unscathed. 
Integer  vitae, — with  life  intact.  The  Joseph  of  Arimathea  is 
said  to  resemble  Michelangelo;  a  chance  resemblance,  if  any, 
so  far  as  outward  appearances  go.  But  in  the  head,  bowed 
in  submission  but  not  in  weakness,  the  soul  strong  and  erect, 
though  with  nothing  but  itself  to  sustain  it,  we  see  the 
spiritual  portrait  of  Michelangelo. 

The  story  is  told  that  while  the  work  was  in  progress, 
curiosity  ran  high  as  to  what  the  old  sculptor  might  be  doing 
in  the  night  behind  closed  doors.  Other  means  failing,  two 
friends  more  daring  than  the  rest,  devised  a  pretext  for  call- 
ing upon  him  at  night.  They  were  admitted,  not  cordially 
but  with  passive  courtesy,  and  as  they  gazed  upon  the  unfin- 
ished work,  the  candle  in  Michelangelo's  cap,  as  by  accident, 
fell  to  the  ground  and  flickered  and  went  out,  whereupon  he 
remarked  simply,  "Let  us  go  out  with  the  candle.'* 


CONCLUSION 


It  is  appropriate  that  we  take  our  leave  of  Michelangelo 
in  the  darkness  with  the  candle  gone  out.  Never  did  art  die 
so  utterly  with  the  death  of  one  man  as  with  that  of  Michel- 
angelo. Sculpture  and  painting,  to  be  sure,  went  on  briskly, 
but  inspiration  ceased.  The  most  extraordinary  achievements 
of  technique  of  all  preceding  artists  seem  to  have  been  severally 
considered  and  indubitably  surpassed,  all  to  the  satisfaction 
of  both  performers  and  spectators,  but  to  the  inexpressible 
ennui  of  posterity  who  came  to  demand,  as  posterities  have 
a  way  of  doing,  the  purpose  of  all  these  displays,  only  to  find 
that  art  had  insensibly  lost  sight  of  purpose  as  a  vital  factor 
in  its  program.  The  artist  went  through  the  same  motions 
and  society  offered  the  same  applause  for  a  time,  it  would 
seem,  from  mere  momentum,  because  it  was  easier  to  go  on 
than  it  was  to  stop.  Unfortunately,  the  extraordinary  means 
adopted  by  Michelangelo  for  extraordinary  purposes  were 
now  adopted  by  his  successors  for  ordinary  purposes,  or  for 
no  purpose  at  all.  The  worst  orgy  that  art  ever  knew  was 
to  follow  in  that  century  and  a  half  of  baroque  art  which 
centers  around  the  great  and  awful  name  of  Bernini.  This  art 
takes  its  cue  from  the  later  art  of  Michelangelo.  For  the  most 
extraordinary  reason  he  had  transcended  the  limits  of  legiti- 
mate sculpture.  They  saw  his  achievements,  not  in  the 
greatness  of  the  purpose  which  he  realized,  but  in  the  bravoure 
of  his  trespass.  It  forthwith  becomes  the  passion  of  art  to 
emulate  and  if  possible  to  exceed  his  trespass.  The  demand 
of  sane  art,  whatever  its  medium  or  form,  is:  "Show  me  the 

452 


Conclusion 


453 


line  of  least  resistance,  that  so  I  may  best  accomplish  my  pur- 
pose." The  demand  of  the  baroque  artist  was : ''  Show  me  the 
line  of  greatest  difficulty,  that  so  I  may  best  demonstrate  my 
skill."  Instead  of  making  stones  heavy  and  stable,  they 
sought  to  make  them  float  in  the  air.  Instead  of  striving  for 
integrity  of  mass,  they  sought  to  honeycomb  with  cleverness. 
Painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  all  went  the  same  evil  way. 
Compare  Bernini's  David  or  his  Pieta  with  that  of  Michel- 
angelo, or,  best  of  all,  let  the  Pieta  of  the  great  sculptor  make 
its  deep  impression  upon  you,  and  then  walk  down  the  great 
nave  of  St.  Peter's  and  look  at  Bernini's  large  bronze  in  the 
Tribune,  and  some  conception  will  then  be  possible  of  the 
abyss  into  which  the  candle  of  art  fell  when  it  dropped  from 
the  keeping  of  Michelangelo. 

But  why  ?  The  misguided  imitation  of  one  man,  however 
great,  cannot  pervert  the  art  of  the  world  when  it  has  ideals 
and  inspiration.  Why  was  it  that  when  this  candle  flickered 
and  went  out,  no  other  was  found  burning  upon  the  altar  of 
art?  The  answer  is  not  easy,  nor  is  any  single  answer  ade- 
quate, but  one  observation  at  least  becomes  necessary  as  we 
close  our  study.  Christian  art  was  complete.  Art  is  never 
the  creation  of  an  individual,  but  its  subject  matter  is  the 
slowly  formulated  experience  of  communities  of  men.  Slowly 
these  experiences  take  shape  in  more  or  less  uniform  conceptions 
of  truth  and  currents  of  feeling.  This  formulation  once  toler- 
ably complete,  it  begins  to  find  expression  in  art.  Its  expo- 
nents struggle  with  problems  of  utterance,  slowly  overcome 
difficulties,  and  at  last  arrive  at  the  full  expression  of  these 
slowly  elaborated  ideals.  When  expression  is  complete,  in- 
terest in  the  subject  languishes.  Farther  utterance  lacks 
originality  and  frantic  efforts  are  made  to  increase  the  impres- 
sion by  sensational  modes  of  expression.  Witness  Bernini's 
Pieta  or  Guido  Reni's  Ecce  Homo.  Art  becomes  theatrical 
and  insincere.  It  scores  a  brief  triumph  and  produces  a 
deadlier  ennui.     Yet  the  power  of  expression,  at  this  moment 


454  Mornings  with  Masters  of  Art 

of  completed  utterance,  is  at  its  height,  and  goads  its  pos- 
sessor to  ever  more  frantic  oratory  as  mankind  turns  an  in- 
creasingly deaf  ear.  There  is  but  one  remedy.  Man  must 
live  some  more  and  get  interested  in  something  which  shall 
again  crave  utterance. 

Such  a  period  of  lassitude  had  now  arrived  in  the  art  of 
Italy.  So  long  as  Christian  ideals  were  expressed  superfi- 
cially, by  conventional  symbols,  art  had  not  accompHshed 
her  task,  —  such  is  the  art  of  Cimabue  and  the  lesser  men  of 
later  times.  Not  even  when  its  great  dogmas  are  represented 
spiritually,  but  as  things  unique  and  unrelated  to  our  com- 
mon experience  do  we  rest  content.  Such  is  the  art  of  Fra 
AngeUco  and  of  BeUini  in  Venice.  Nor  is  art  ever  quit  of  her 
task  through  revolt,  as  in  Fra  Lippo,  or  through  retrospective 
classicism,  as  in  Botticelli,  or  stately  irrelevancies  as  in  Ghir- 
landajo.     All  these  in  some  degree  evade  the  issue. 

The  goal  short  of  which  no  system,  no  race  experience,  no 
faith,  can  ever  rest  content  is  its  final  statement  in  terms  of 
universal  human  experience.  The  Madonna  will  never  quite 
satisfy  us  until  she  stands  for  something  as  broad  as  humanity 
and  as  old  as  life.  Let  her  suffer,  let  her  love,  but  as  human- 
ity suffers  and  loves,  or  rather,  as  humanity  would  fain  suffer 
and  love.  She  must  cease  to  be  a  special  case,  and  must 
express  humanity's  ideal.  Likewise  the  Crucifixion,  the 
symbol  of  sacrifice  in  the  interest  of  soul  enlargement.  Make 
not  too  much  of  the  halo,  the  spear  or  the  chalice  that  receives 
his  blood.  These  isolate  the  suffering  whose  meaning  we 
must  somehow  link  with  our  own.  No  matter  what  our 
personal  theories,  the  history  of  art  is  explicit.  Theology 
may  speak  of  the  sacrifice,  but  art  will  speak  of  sacrifice,  never 
ceasing  its  quest  till  the  great  synthesis  is  reached. 

That  is  precisely  the  meaning  of  these  last  great  days  of  the 
Renaissance.  The  great  synthesis  had  been  reached.  The 
Madonna  comes  down  from  her  throne  and  her  homage  and 
walks  in  the  beauty  of  the  world  that  we  love ;  but  more  than 


Conclusion 


455 


that,  she  lays  aside  all  claim  to  special  prerogative,  and  we 
discover  with  infinite  joy  and  relief  that  the  love  she  bore  in 
her  heart  is  the  same  love  that  irradiates  the  Ufe  about  us. 
The  smile  that  the  dear  old  monk  went  to  heaven  to  find  in  her 
celestial  face,  we  accept  with  glad  recognition,  yearning  the 
while  for  a  still  more  heavenly  radiance ;  and  when  the  last 
perfecting  touch  is  given,  the  heavenly  vision  that  we  sought 
is  but  the  perfect  ideal  of  the  smile  that  a  child  beholds  in  a 
mother's  face.  And  the  great  tragedy  of  the  Cross,  whose  mys- 
tery we  had  so  long  sought  to  fathom,  art  struggles  to  inter- 
pret, with  ceaseless  patience  suiting  itself  to  the  cravings  of 
our  hearts,  when  lo,  as  symbol  gives  way  to  soul,  we  discover 
with  the  same  relief  of  spirit,  it  is  but  the  ministry  of  sorrow 
that  is  as  broad  as  life  itself.  Everywhere  it  is  the  same. 
Dogma  is  broadened  and  deepened  till  it  is  as  large  as  Ufe 
itself.  In  Leonardo's  Madonna  of  the  cartoon,  in  Michel- 
angelo's Deposition,  there  is  nothing  local,  nothing  provincial, 
nothing  for  the  skeptic  to  doubt,  nothing  for  the  fanatic  to 
exaggerate.  The  local  has  found  the  universal,  and  that 
which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep  has  turned  again 
home. 


APPENDIX 

Following  is  a  supplementary  list  of  subjects  of  prints  available  for 
further  detailed  illustrative  study  of  the  text  of  this  volume :  — 


CHAPTER  I 
Wall  Decoration.     Pompeii B  12 


„      1   T5  •  .•  UNivERsrrv 

Greek  Paintmg  print 


CHAPTER   II 
Mosaics 

Aquatic  Birds.     S.  M.  in  Trastevere,  Rome      .         .         .  .  B  16 

Section  of  Vaulted  Ceiling.     S.  Costanza,  Rome       .         .  .  B  17 

Coronation  of  the  Virgin.     S.  M.  Maggiore,  Rome  .         .  .  B  37 

Semi-dome  of  Apse.     S.  Giovanni  in  Laterano,  Rome      .  .  B  20 

Emperor  Justinian  and  Courtiers.     S.  Vitale,  Ravenna     .  .  B  29 

Empress  Theodora  and  Court  Ladies.     S.  Vitale,  Ravenna  .  B  30 

Procession  of  Female  Saints.     S.  ApoUinare  Nuovo,  Ravenna  .  B  28 

Tribune  Arch  and  Apse.     S.  Clemente,  Rome  .         .         .  ,  B  33 

Nativity.     S.  M.  in  Trastevere,  Rome B  36 

CHAPTER  III 
Cimabue 

Madonna  with  Angels  and  St.  Francis.     S.  Francesco,  Assisi  .  B  51 


CHAPTER  IV 

Giotto 

Interior  of  Lower  Church.     S.  Francesco,  Assisi 
Interior.     Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua     . 
Nativity.     Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua     . 
Baptism  of  Christ.     Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua 
Entrance  into  Jerusalem.     Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua 
Crucifixion.     Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua 
Hope.     Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua 
Death  of  St.  Francis.     Chapel  of  the  Arena,  Padua  . 
457 


.     .  B53 

.     .  B54 

.    B  60 

.    B  62 

.    B  65' 

.    B  67 

.    B  69 

.        .    B  73 

458  Appendix 


CHAPTER     V  UNIVERSITY 

Taddeo  Gaddi  print 

Presentation  of  the  Virgin.     S.  Croce,  Florence        .        .         .    B  79 

Giottino 

Crucifixion.     S.  M.  Novella,  Florence B  82 

Masaccio 

Tribute  Money  —  Central  group.  Carmine,  Florence  .  .  B  141 
Tribute  Money — Head  of  Christ.     Carmine,  Florence    .         .B  142 

CHAPTER  VI 
Orcagna 

Paradise  —  Christ  and  the  Virgin.     S.  M.  Novella,  Florence     .    B  85 
Paradise  —  Saints.     S.  M.  Novella,  Florence    .         .         .         .    B  84 
Fra  Angelico 

Last  Judgment — The  Condemned.     Academy,  Florence  .B  118 

St.  Stephen  preaching.     Dispute  with  the  Doctors.     Vatican, 

Rome B  127 

CHAPTER  VH 
Fra  Filippo  Lippi 

Madonna  and  Child.     Pitti,  Florence B  153 

Coronation  of  the  Virgin.  Academy,  Florence  .  .  .  B  149 
Madonna  with  Saints  and  Angels.  Ixtuvre,  Paris  .  .  .  B  150 
Obsequies  of  St.  Stephen.     Cathedral,  Prato    .         .         ,        .  B  147 

CHAPTER  VHI 

Botticelli 

Judith  with  the  Head  of  Holofernes.     Uffizi,  Florence     .         .  B  183 

Adoration  of  the  Magi  —  detail.     Uffizi,  Florence     .         .         .  B  176 

Pallas  and  the  Centaur.     Royal  Palace,  Florence      .         .         .  B  169 

Madonna  with  Angels  bearing  Lilies.     Berlin  .         ,         .         .  B  180 

Ghirlandajo 

Last  Supper.     S.  Marco,  Florence B  203 

Nativity.     Academy,  Florence B  205 

Sacrifice  of  Zacharias.     S.  M.  Novella,  Florence       .         .         .  B  198 

Sacrifice  of  Zacharias — detail.     S.  M.  Novella,  Florence  ,  B  199 

Birth  of  John  the  Baptist —  detail.     S.  M.  Novella,  Plorence  .  B  201 

CHAPTER   IX 
Niccol6  Pisano 

Adoration  of  the  Kings.  Baptistery,  Pisa  .  .  .  .  B  380 
Presentation  in  the  Temple.     Baptistery,  Pisa  .         .         ,         .  D  381 


Appendix  459 


Niccolo  Pisano  {Continued)  print 

Marble  Vase  —  Story  of  Bacchus.  Carapo  Santo,  Pisa  .  .  B  387 
Roman  Sarcophagus.     Campo  Santo,  Pisa        .         .         .         .  B  388 

Pulpit.     Cathedral,  Siena B  382 

Adoration  of  the  Kings.     Cathedral,  Siena       .         .         .         .  B  383 

Giovanni  Pisano 

Crucifixion.     Museo  Civico,  Pisa B  390 

Orvieto  Sculptures 

Fa9ade.     Cathedral,  Orvieto B  399 

Creation  of  Man  and  Woman.  Cathedral,  Orvieto  .  .  .  B  401 
Pilaster  at  Extreme  Right.  Cathedral,  Orvieto  .  .  .  B  402 
Resurrection.     Cathedral,  Orvieto B  403 

Andrea  Pisano 

South  Doors.     Baptistery,  Florence B  394 

Fortitude.     Temperance.     Baptistery,  Florence        .         .         .  B  396 


CHAPTER  X 

Ghiberti 

North  Doors.     Baptistery,  Florence B  417 

Transfiguration.     Raising  of  Lazarus.     Baptistery,  Florence    .  B  419 
Adam  and  Eve  (First  Panel).     Baptistery,  Florence         .         .  B  421 


CHAPFER   XI 
Donatello 

St.  George  —  detail.     Bargello,  Florence B  435 

Annunciation.     S.  Croce,  Rorence B  432 

St.  Mark.     Or  San  Michele,  Florence B  433 

St.  John.     Bargello,  Florence B  431 

Campanile.     Florence B     52 

Pulpit.     Cathedral,  Prato B  442 

Singing  Gallery  —  Upper  Panel.  Cathedral  Museum,  Florence  B  440 
Singing  Gallery  —  Lower  Panel.     Cathedral  Museum,  Florence  B  441 

Gattamelata.     Piazza  del  Santo,  Padua B  444 

North  Pulpit.     S.  Lorenzo,  Florence B  448 

Verocchio 

Baptism  of  Christ.     Academy,  Florence B  191 

Baptism  of  Christ  —  detail.  Academy,  Florence  .  .  .  B  192 
Boy  and  Dolphin.  Palazzo  Vecchio,  Florence  .  .  .  B  496 
David.     Bargello,  Florence B  492 


460 


Appendix 


UNIVERSITY 
PRINT 


CHAPTER  XII 
Fra  Bartolommeo 

Madonna  Enthroned.     Uffizi,  Florence     . 
Madonna  Enthroned  —  detail.     Uffizi,  Florence 
Andrea  del  Sarto 

Adoration  of  the  Magi.     SS.  Annunziata,  Florence 
Madonna  del  Sacco.     SS.  Annunziata,  Florence 
-     Last  Supper.     S.  Salvi,  Florence 


.C 
.C 


.C  84 
.C  95 
•  C    96 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Perugino 

St.  Sebastian.     Louvre,  Paris 

Madonna,  Child,  and  Two  Angels.     Poldi-Pezzoli,  Milan 
Certosa  Altar  Piece.     National  Gallery,  London 
Sposalizio.     Museum,  Caen 

Raphael 

Vision  of  a  Knight.     National  Gallery,  London 
Marriage  of  the  Virgin.     Brera,  Milan      .         .         .         . 
Madonna  Ansidei.     National  Gallery,  London 
Madonna  Garvagh.     National  Gallery,  London 
Madonna  di  Casa  Tempi.     Alte  Pinakothek,  Munich 
Madonna  di  San  Sisto  —  detail.     Gallery,  Dresden  . 

Botticelli 

Madonna  With  Angels.     Borghese,  Rome' 

Madonna,  Child,  and  Angels.     National  Gallery,  London 


B 

265 

B 

258 

B 

264 

B 

259 

C 

144 

C 

147 

C 

155 

C 

175 

C 

153 

C 

197 

B 

178 

B 

182 

CHAPTER  XIV 
Raphael 

Camera  della  Segnatura.     Vatican,  Rome 

Disputa  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome   . 

Disputa  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome    . 

Disputa  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome    . 

School  of  Athens  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome 

Parnassus  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome 

Parnassus  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome 

Deliverance  of  Peter  — detail.     Vatican,  Rome 

Attila  repulsed  from  Rome.     Vatican,  Rome 

Expulsion  of  Heliodorus.     Vatican,  Rome 

Miracle  of  Bolsena.     Vatican,  Rome 

Vision  of  Ezekiel.     Pitti,  Florence   . 

Four  Sibyls.     S.  M.  della  Pace,  Rome 


.C 
.C 
.C 
.C 
.C 
.C 


159 
161 
162 

163 
168 
165 


.C  166 
.C  178 


.c 
.c 
.c 
.c 
.c 


[79 

[76 

[77 

t73 
[80 


Appendix 


461 


Raphael  {Continued) 

Four  Sibyls  —  detail.  S.  M.  della  Pace,  Rome 
Four  Sibyls  —  detail.  S.  M.  della  Pace,  Rome 
Portrait  of  Pope  Julius  II.     Pitti,  Florence 


UNIVERSITY 
PRINT 

.C  181 
.C  182 

.CI72 


CHAPTER  XV 

Bertoldo 

Battle.     Bargello,  Florence       .... 

Michelangelo 

Mask  of  a  Faun.     Bargello,  Florence 
Angel  with  Candlestick.     S.  Domenico,  Bologna 
Drunken  Bacchus.     Bargello,  Florence     . 
Kneeling  Cupid.     London        .... 
David  —  head.     Academy,  Florence 


B452 


.C438 
.C  441 
.C  442 
•C  443 
.C  449 


CHAPTER   XVI 

Michelangelo 

Tomb  of  Pope  Julius  II.     S.  Pietro  in  Vincoli,  Rome 

Battle  of  Pisa  (Engraving) 

Melozzo 

Head  of  Apostle.     St.  Peter's,  Rome 

Angel  with  Viol.     St.  Peter's,  Rome 

Angel  with  Lute.     St.  Peter's,  Rome 

Angel  with  Timbrel.     St.  Peter's,  Rome  . 
Michelangelo 

Creation  of  Man  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome 

Creation  of  Man  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome 

Deluge  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome     . 

Sacrifice  of  Noah.     Vatican,  Rome  . 

Drunkenness  of  Noah.     Vatican,  Rome   . 

Judith  with  the  Head  of  Holofernes.     Vatican,  Rome 


C 

450 

c 

103 

B 

239 

B 

240 

B 

241 

B 

242 

C 

109 

C 

no 

C 

114 

c 

"3 

c 

"5 

c 

116 

CHAPTER  XVII 
Michelangelo 

Last  Judgment  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome 
Last  Judgment  —  detail.     Vatican,  Rome 
Interior  of  New  Sacristy.     S.  Lorenzo,  Florence 
Night  —  detail.     S.  Lorenzo,  Florence      .      *  . 


c  135 

C  136 
C  454 
C458 


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